Meet the Trainer
by Cookie-Loving Kiara
Summary: Gray's gone, everything's fixed, and now a long-planned experiment is in action. Yet the reins and pay are tighter with both Redmond and Blutarch dead. Worse still, the test is a new Class, and while splitting the check even more isn't anyone's cup of tea, no one defies the Admin, even if the newbie brings trouble. Tenth Class OC made to be a non-Gary Sue. Working hard on the plot!
1. First of May

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Team Fortress 2. This disclaimer counts for all the chapters of this story.

* * *

An announcement.

There was always an announcement.

It was never like the childhood days when a new kid joined the class—never-mind the entire school—without warning. You would just find the newcomer sitting in an empty seat in the classroom, amongst the sea of familiar faces and body shapes and sizes, like a green apple surrounded by red ones. Not much of a difference, one could say—they were all just apples. The reasons for the unexpected arrival of the new person, well, I guess you could say it was so that the students would learn to adapt, so that the new kid would not be welcomed with some mushy overly-friendly treatment, so that everything would be casual, and that the new kid's first friend would have volunteered themselves instead of being nominated by others. At least, that is what most teachers might say.

Might.

But not the Administrator, oh no, she was certainly not a teacher, and she would always give announcements, always gave the mercenaries a reason to live through the day, then she would watch them scramble about like startled flies on a disturbed carcass as they dashed off to protect the contested point or chase after the Scout with the Intelligence. Sometimes, but rarely, would there be wake-up calls—those only happened back in the days, though, when everyone was new—as long as one person was oversleeping away the valuable time that was meant for washing up, changing out and eating breakfast. It was scary to hear her scratchy, spine-chilling voice over the power amplifier system, threatening them in the most sickly-sweet way with a 'Good morning, gentlemen, I do hope everyone had a _comfortable_ sleep last night, because if any one of you _scum_ are _still_ in their rooms, rest assure that _none_ of will be sleeping well for the next few weeks'. During battle, her announcements were fine, appreciated, even, despite the fact that those announcements would still send them scrambling around the entire area.

Like startled flies on a disturbed carcass.

Most of the time that scary Cruella De Vil lady would send her assistant to give announcements and instructions for whatever proceedings were to happen. That young lady—Miss Pauling—she was like a pre-evolution of that old woman with the same shade of purple in her closet, those sharp green eyes and black hair (though granted that the Administrator has a streak of white through hers; must be fashion). The petite lady would visit each Team's barracks every month for the usual checks and reports, and occasionally notify the mercenaries about news and updates outside the fortress.

It had never really crossed the Administrator's mind to hold back those announcements—for shocks, maybe; for surprises, no, never. As far as literature goes, shocks were negative, and surprises were positive. The line was as thin as the one separating tension and suspense, why care about it?

Though, a voice would interrupt, why not see the baffled, idiotic faces of wide eyes and gaping mouths of pure confusion and, well, _shock_? Those morons had been working together for several years since recruitment, and from what Miss Pauling had informed her, they had adapted to living together (rather difficult for the loners like the Sniper and secretive ones like the Spy) and had even arranged an unclear blur of a working schedule.

Amusingly so, they even arranged a timetable for meals. The rations were not as interesting, perhaps, but from what the Administrator thought, they might have been trying to visit the small town outside.

Might.

Would not have been unexpected, really; not a shock nor a surprise.

So, why not, just for once, just to see their shocked faces?

Of course, Miss Pauling would explain everything—and tell her what they said in reaction. Cameras could only see, not hear.

It was just a minor change in her plans, which, save for her ever loyal assistant, no one knew about. Nothing too hard to switch or adjust, just one extra instruction;

Act like nothing was wrong.

Act casual.

* * *

"YOU SPINELESS MAGGOTS! YOU DO NOT DESERVE SLEEP OR REST! BACK DURING THE WAR MY COMRADES AND I DIDN'T EVEN GET A WINK OF SLEEP FOR FORTY DAYS!"

Noisy, the typical morning was always noisy.

"An average human vould haf died from exhaustion by zhe fourth day, Soldier,"

Sure, maybe if you managed to get everyone damned person in the BLU barracks to shut up; you might have heard something called silence. Then again, those birds outside and their chirps…

"WE AREN'T TALKING 'AVERAGE' HERE, QUACK! THESE ARE **AMERICANS** WE'RE TALKING ABOUT-"

The Sniper used to shoot those birds whenever he was bored. They were much quieter now. You know, dead.

"I am _not_ a quack, I'm a crazy doctor… zhere's a difference…"

Of course, none of the Medic's doves were ever hurt. Well, not much.

"Oh will you two shut up?!"

Not as though the Australian would bother admitting, being the quiet one he was—quite different from his curse-yelling, threat-screaming colleagues.

"Demo, wake up, a hangover on ceasefire ain't gonna getcha nowhere wi' Solly."

Incoherent grumbles and murmurs were probably much noisier.

"Demo, Ah said wake up before-"

Then again, so were stomping feet, harsh yelling, the smashing of wood and slamming of doors against walls. The Demoman was too drowsy and disoriented by his hangover and the usual feeling of sleepiness when one just woke up to speak. The Engineer quickly shuffled away as the Soldier made his way into the drunkard's room. Upon hearing shuffling feet, the southerner's goggled metal-grey eyes looked behind him, catching the disappearing black shoes of a certain Frenchman cloaking.

"C'mon y'all, it's six in th' mornin', couldn't ya save th' fightin' f'r tomorrow?" he sighed and glanced back into the room, staying put outside as he peered into the room that reeked of strong alcohol and explosives.

Inside the room, the Soldier was dragging the Scotsman off his blue bed and across the dorm floor by the legs. He laughed, throwing his head up slightly and causing his oversized helmet to bump against the bridge of his nose. "HA! AS IF! I GAVE YOU NUMBNUTS THE LIBERTY TO SLEEP PAST FIVE, NOT THE PRIVILEGE TO SLACK!"

The Medic, who had taken his perch at the other side of the doorway, raised an eyebrow in mock interest, his grey eyes glinting. "Und zhe difference being…?"

"YOU STILL HAVE TO GET UP!" With a chortle, the patriot flung his drunken colleague out the door. The other two swiftly retreated by several feet.

The Demoman landed with a thud, propped up by the door behind him—the Pyro's door, to be exact. He groggily clutched his head and moaned. "Argh… stop wi' ye yellin', me hangover's tearin' me apart inside oot if ye keep talkin' so loudly."

The Heavy's head appeared, poking out from his room beside the Pyro's door. As he lumbered out at his usual speed, he gazed at the scene before him, settling on the Demoman as he tried to get up. His dust-grey eyes relaxed but awake. "Battlefield is always noisy, how does-"

"He drinks zhem avay," The Medic waved a hand, dismissing the question casually.

The Russian did not say much other than a not-quite-understanding-but-still-comprehending "Ah," He looked at the others. "Is getting late, let us eat."

"Late? This early, pardner?" the Engineer chuckled good-naturedly, shaking his head.

"YES!" the Soldier exclaimed in agreement, grabbing the Demoman by his turtleneck collar, dragging him along and leading the other four towards the mess hall. The Medic slipped behind the Heavy instinctively despite not being in battle, but partial of the reason was so that he could be further apart from the loud and burly patriot. The Engineer strolled along beside them just a tad in front, adjusting his yellow hardhat for a moment.

The Demoman was beginning to sober up—just a little—by the time they reached the mess hall, regaining his casual competitive-sibling attitude that he sometimes showed to the Soldier; he punched the latter in the shoulder harmlessly as he staggered upright, nearly tripping as he took a step forward. Fortunately the mechanic of the Team quickly caught him by the arm and firmly yanked him backwards. Soldier guffawed and marched on.

"Thanks, boyo," the Scotsman said, shaking his head clear.

"No problem, jus' watch y'r step," the stout man stepped past him. From the corner of his eyes he caught sight of the three—the Demoman, Heavy and Medic—dispersing from the small group.

The Scout's distinguishable voice rang from his corner: "Hey Demo! Didcha jus' trip ovah nothin'?"

"Eh, jus' a flat surface," The liquor cabinet was one bottle emptier.

The Bostonian stifled his chortles as the older man took a seat at the table, Scrumpy in hand. "Keep up da casual act, Cyclops,"

The Demoman just took a swig. The other frowned slightly in disappointment—how hard could it be a strike up and hold a conversation with these geezers? He looked over to the Sniper, whose feet were propped on the table and hat over his eyes. A sleeping Sniper was not exactly a cranky Sniper, right?

"Hey Snipes, do ya evah wonder whe' Spook's at when he ain't with da Team?"

The gangly man remained silent. Scout huffed.

"Ya all old geezers," He planted a bandaged hand on the table and swung his lean body over, feet dangerously close to kicking the Sniper's coffee over. Said person flinched visibly and lifted his hat off to glare at the speedster as he ran off.

"Hey, Stretch!"

The marksman groaned and slumped in his seat even more. "What, Engie?"

"Have you seen Pyro?"

"Why d' you mongrels always think I know where everyone's at?" he snapped.

The Engineer did not blink from behind his goggles. "You watch." he simply said.

The Sniper growled a sigh. "Bloke's outside in the bloody rain, Suit's somewhere else, now let me alone."

The other man shrugged. The perimeter of the base was not exactly that large, most of it consisting of the barracks rather than the—noticeably wrecked by explosions—training fields outside. Finding Pyro should not be that hard, especially in this rainy weather-

"Sphf!"

Never-mind.

The Engineer looked up at the sound of the Pyro's muffled voice despite the latter having not called for him. It came from the hallway, which was echoing with footsteps and a dull, sandy hiss.

The Spy stepped out with the Pyro hot on his fancy dress shoe heels.

With someone new.

The infiltrator gazed at his colleagues in the mess hall, seemingly satisfied that most of them were present. He nudged the stranger forward with a warning jab of his butterfly knife against the other's back before addressing the rest of the Team;

"Found zhis intruder talking with Pyro outside Engineer's workshop,"

"Hfs frrphy!" the firebug protested, waving its gloved hands to exaggerate its annoyance.

The Spy rolled his ash grey eyes and stared skeptically at the other. "He's not part of Mann Co.,"

The stranger raised a finger. "Actually I am-" The knife was nudged again.

The Soldier stormed up to the three and snatched the newcomer up by the collar, rattling him until his homburg hat left off to reveal messy brown hair and a face of scars. "YOU SORRY SON OF A MAGGOT! YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST SNEAK INTO THESE HERE BARRACKS OF AMERICAN FIGHTING SPIRIT! IF I HAD MY SHOVEL WITH ME IT'D BE UP YOUR-"

"Solly, calm down, pardner-"

"Lpht gf umph mph frphm!-"

"Pyro, don't-"

"Who is stranger-"

"Ooh… me head-"

_Ruff ruff!_

"That's not me-"

"Vell, zhis is amusing-"

"Hey guys, whad'I miss-"

A soft click of the PA system surrounding the Team snapped them out and shut them up; they froze in their orderly chaotic positions, staring up at the speakers.

A familiar throaty chuckle slowly filled the mess hall, static hissing softly. "_Good morning, gentlemen,_"

The Spy redrew his knife. "Madame Administrator,"

"Why's da scary lady talkin' ta us ovah da PA system?" the Scout whispered hoarsely to the nearest mercenary beside him—the Heavy. The big man shrugged his broad shoulders.

"_First off: Congratulations on not killing another messenger; it turns out that you imbeciles can actually take in information and apply it. Finally, after all these years._"

The Sniper grumbled, slouching back in his seat. The Medic huffed and pushed his round-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

"_Secondly: Soldier._"

The Soldier snorted and dropped the stranger. The latter quickly scrambled upright.

"_Thirdly-_"

He discarded his rain-damp coat off to expose a miniature television set strapped to his chest, over a pale blue long-sleeved shirt of symmetrical flap pockets, tucked under his deep blue pants that were held up by a black belt, and the pants themselves were tucked into combat boots. A yellow circle decorated each of his sleeves, right on top of his forearms, depicting something similar to a paw print with four small ovals above each toe.

The television lit up.

The Administrator's lips curled into her usual sadistic smile. She continued; "_…say hello to your new colleague_,"

"**Colleague?!**" eight voices—including the drunk Demoman's—simultaneously cried at the same time.

"Mph tulf ymf!" the Pyro exclaimed, fingers curling in what seemed like either frustration or triumph.

The aged lady leaned back in her reclining chair, the second thing noticeable in the darkness she was surrounded by. She took a drag on her cigarette before she went on: "_You men react in the most amusing ways when not given a notification. Why, if I stopped announcing for a day, you people probably won't even realise that the mission had begun._"

"Enough nonsense, Madame Administrator," the Spy stepped towards the black-and-white television set, eyes narrowing in annoyance. "Explain."

The woman rolled her green eyes. "_This man here is a new Class. An experiment, you could say, since we've yet to confirm everything weapon-wise._" She crushed her cigarette into an ashtray. "_He will be working with the nine of you for about a week or so._" She laced her spindly fingers together. "_If you oblivious idiots have yet to notice, the last dorm room is no longer locked._"

The stranger grinned lopsidedly, showing off a sharp canine. His dull silver eyes were too friendly for comfort, borderline unnerving with the scars on his face contrasting. "I already locked the two in there, boss,"

She paid him no heed. "_Gentlemen,_

"_Meet the Trainer_."

* * *

**A/N:** I swear, I took a really long time writing this with my skills rusty and my life busy, but I've been developing Trainer for nearly ten full months, I figured he should at least be known (also because I don't see that many male OCs in TF2). Ten months of research and tweaking here and there, multiple Mary (or in this case, Gary) Sue tests over and over again like some specimen being observed and experimented or breeding animals until they become favourable and domesticated enough to be released. Inspiration and creativity have abandoned me and handed me over to school stress and family problems, as much as I love writing. Anyway, constructive criticism would be appreciated.

Coming up next: _"Might I ask why there is an interrogation going on?"_

Pleasant days and peaceful nights.


	2. The Bally

To say the BLUs were shocked and uncomfortable was the understatement of the millennium.

To think, after years of working together, seeing the same faces every single day—save for the holidays when they visited home—and fighting alongside the same people every working day! And that woman introduced someone new out of the blue! On Sunday, no less!

Granted, everyone here was missing a few shells of a shotgun one way or another, but still, demanding them to suddenly adapt to the newcomer was utter nonsense!

The Scout stared up and reached a lean arm out, plucking off part of a strange looking object that was floating above him, leaving a black dot. He flipped the slim oval item around.

"Weird crap," Pursing his lips in boredom, he tossed it back up. The runner leaped off his bed, resuming his rant of thoughts. It was not fair! Just because some new kid joined the Team, he had no Pyro to joke with! The more he thought about, the more his heart stung with lost.

What was so interesting about that weirdo, anyway? He just waltzed into the base like nothing was off and treated everyone like they were not strangers, like they were not going to hurt him.

Which, to say, they could not; Administrator's orders. Partially because he had the miniature television strapped to his chest.

The speedster made his way down the corridor in search for his best friend (at least, the only teammate that did not seem old) and the stranger. Maybe this was an opportunity to step up a rank in the hierarchy order within the Team _and_ get the Pyro's attention.

"Jus' 'cause I'm da youngest back home doesn't mean I'm da runt heah," he muttered, bitter and seething silently.

Then he saw it.

A different colour.

It stood out of the new white tiles, the strong azure of the walls, anything cool and blue, at that.

Fortunately, it was not bright and loud like red. If it was, it would have met an aluminium bat to the skull.

It was the colour of royalty and mystery, a smart colour that either sparked fear or affection—two quite separate things, honestly—but always respect.

It was purple.

It was Miss Pauling.

"MISS P!" the Scout shrieked in excitement, his legs carrying him in blurry flash toward the petite lady in purple clothes and heels. She flinched from the sudden loud burst at first, before her brain recognised the distinctive voice and caused her small shoulders to droop reflectively.

"Good afternoon, Scout,"

"What brings ya heah today, eh Miss Pauling? Didcha miss my voice already?"

"Scout-"

"Guess that Admin didn't let ya rest fah too long; ya hadn't called me since da day dat I gave ya my number."

"You do realise that mobile phones are forbidden within the Team Fortress grounds, battlements and barracks alike." She began walking again, her pace brisk and fast, but no trouble for the long-legged runner.

"Yea, but fah you, Miss P, I'd break da friggin' law. Hell, I already broke physics and da Fourth Wall! Didcha see da recordings fah yesterday? Gravity, owned, right deah for your entertainment and delight, Miss Pauling," He paused. "Actually, maybe ya didn't; da story never included dat bit until now."

"Hmm." She turned, towards the mess hall. "Have you seen the new Class?"

The Scout blinked. "Earliah today, yeah," He stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Why?"

"He still has the miniature TV set," she explained, "but since he can't return to the Administrator's office, I've been tasked to retrieve it."

"Ya ain't stayin' fah long, huh?" The speedster's voice dropped in enthusiasm, disappointment taking over.

"Apparently, yes," The secretary entered the mess hall, lips parted to speak, but stopped short. She closed her mouth, then composed herself. "Might I ask why there is an interrogation going on?"

Everybody in the mess hall—all except the Scout standing beside her and the dead-drunk Demoman—looked up at the sound of the feminine voice. Most of the Team were scattered about, save for the Soldier who glaring down sternly at the seated new recruit with a curious Spy hovering nearby. The Demoman was sprawled on the couch, in the same exact position when he had first lain down; the Heavy, Medic and Sniper were at the main table. It seemed like curiosity was stronger than the temptation to get up and leave.

The Engineer, who was chatting with the Pyro, was the first to speak. "Mornin', Miss Paulin',"

Said person blinked and stared at the Team, gaze calm, yet skeptical. Throughout the years of working under the Administrator, she had developed a stoic and nonchalant attitude when it came to paperwork and idi-

Mercenaries, they were mercenaries, trained killers that were being paid for blowing up landmarks, buildings and payload carts.

And occasionally, though not intentionally, each other.

The lady sighed and walked over to the newcomer, ignoring the Soldier's salute of a greeting. "Television set, Trainer,"

"Ah, just a second," The straps clicks as the newcomer unbuckled them, before handing over the device to her. "I know it isn't Windy Van Hooten's here, but is it always like this for First of Mays?"

"Like what?" she asked, slipping the miniature television into a satchel that she had brought along.

"Getting to know our new colleague," the Spy answered, smooth voice bored.

Miss Pauling's eyes narrowed. "State what you have told them so far."

The Trainer raised both hands up in surrender and defence. "Relax, Miss Pauling, I know the contract and the rules here. So far: The day when the Administrator approved of my résumé, who and what I think I am, that I experienced war as a child who couldn't even recognise himself in the mirror,"—he turned to look at the menacing, glowering Soldier—"my American nationality-"

Instantly, the patriot's expression switched. He captured the newbie in a headlock, harshly ruffling his already-messy hair and chortling. "THIS IS ONE I APPROVE OF!"

Pauling raised a thin brow. "Is that all?"

"Now why would I lie?" He ducked out of the larger man's—the Trainer was somewhat lean, though not like the Scout or Sniper—strong arms.

Her gaze became skeptical once more.

"I'm a First of May, why would I try to get red lighted? I mean, sure, haven't visited the seventeen wagon for bunce yet, or done any work yet, at that."

Pauling remained silent for several heartbeats. "You're creating a poor first impression. Get up and do it properly." Remembering his backstory, she added: "The crowd's watching."

After several seconds of hesitant debating, the Trainer pushed himself up. "I'm not the best at ballyhoos, but"—he stepped up onto the chair, planting his right foot on the backrest's top—"if you insist, Miss Pauling. Hopefully I still remember a few bits from the criers and ringmasters. _Ahem._

"LAAADIES AND GENTLEMEN, AND BECAUSE I DON'T SEE ANY CHILDREN I SHAN'T ADDRESS THEM, PREPARE TO BE AMAZED, ASTOUNDED AND ABSOLUTELY ASTONISHED—plah, so many 'A's. _Ahem_—YES SIREE, WE'RE TALKING SURPRISES ON THE SIDESHOW, THE GREATEST AND GRANDEST PERFORMANCES UNDER THE BIG TOP! WE'RE TALKING NEW WAR METHODS, NEW WEAPONS, AND A WHOLE NEW CLASS!"

The Demoman woke up with a startled jolt and Miss Pauling covered her ears. The Spy just rolled his eyes whilst the Pyro seemed to show some sense of child-like interest.

"ALTHOUGH HONEstly being a slanger and bullhand weren't really the most _amazing_ parts," he trailed off, shifting his weight to topple the chair over noisily. "I heard there were coochie girls back then that probably got more attention. Well, personal attention. Don't know what happened to them-"

"_Trainer._"

Said person snapped back. "Huh? Oh, yea, right. THAT'S RIGHT FOLKS! YOU GOT THE OPPORTUNITY; WE GOT THE GOODS, THE GUNS, AND EVEN THE ANIMALS! REMEMBER THOSE ROVERS BACK IN WORLD WAR TWO?"

"Uh, no." The Scout deadpanned.

"WELL THEY ARE HERE TO HELP THIS TEAM OUT! NOT LITERALLY, THOUGH, I'M SURE WE CAN'T LEAVE THE BASE. HELL, THERE'S A FRIGGIN' WALL OF CHINA AROUND US! NOPE, THESE ARE CERTAINLY NOT SEARCH-AND-RESCUE DOGS. BUT IF YOU'D LIKE I COULD ALWAYS SENT THEM AFTER YOUR ASS AS MOTIVATION!"

Pauling sighed and interrupted again. "First off: cease the yelling. Secondly: stay on the subject."

"The Great Wall of China?"

"No."

The Spy raised a gloved hand. "Quick question: Did you ever attend school, Trainer?" The last word was alien on his tongue.

"In the circus, yea; why?"

"Oh, nozhing," The Frenchman took a drag of his cigarette.

The stranger looked at Miss Pauling, who gazed at him expectantly with narrowed eyes. "Fine, I'll do this brief and proper, like the day I got fired." He leaped up onto the table, where the Medic, Sniper and Heavy were seated at, the first two glaring in annoyance while the last looked amused by the newcomer's strange antics.

"If I say anything against the contract, holler me will you, Miss Pauling?"

"You're wasting time-"

"Not anymore," He grinned. "Hello BLU Team, I'm part of an experiment involving the usage of animals during combats and war. You can call me the Trainer. Basically I do what my Class says: I train—not tame—animals. Even the most obedient puppy has killer instincts. All out and over." The handler's grey eyes looked over at the secretary. "That's all they need to know, right?"

She was checking her watch. "Yes. I need to leave now. Goodbye, gentlemen," Before she left, she cast a glance over her shoulder. "Try not to anger the Administrator by fighting; the respawn is still down until tomorrow's scheduled mission."

The Scout whined loudly. "Can I see you back to ya office?"

"No."

The Pyro looked around, shoulders slumped. "Mph dfnt sfhe mphy mphymfls," came in a disappointed, confused whine.

The new recruit sat down. "They're back in the room."

"'Zhey'?" The Spy raised an eyebrow.

"Whiteface and Harlequin, both German Shepherds are in my dorm."

The Soldier instantly scowled. "NAZIS!"

"Zhey better not hurt any of my doves in the infirmary, Neuling," The Medic warned, his face stern with furrowed brows and steely eyes, cold and hard. "If I ever catch any of zhem red-handed-"

"Pawed."

"-I vill personally gut zhem and hang zheir entrails on your door like Christmas decorations. If any of my doves go missing, I vill slice open your hounds' stomachs and gut zhem. Verstanden?"

The Trainer weighed the pros and cons. "Well, I can keep from attacking on command, but not by instinct. You good with that?"

The unofficial doctor leaned back in his seat, seemingly satisfied. "Ja."

The Engineer spoke up, warm and friendly as always: "Tell us 'bout y'self, pardner," he encouraged, "s'always nice t' know new people. Things have been th' same f'r years."

"Vwhy did leetle animal-trick man join Mann Co. BLU Team?" the Heavy added, curious.

The Trainer pursed his lips in a lopsided frown, before grinning nervously. "PETA came around," he vaguely explained, "apparently we trainers were too '_cruel_' to the animals."

The Russian raised an eyebrow. "Heavy does not like animals to suffer," he stated. "Will keep an eye on you, leetle man."

"Now Heavy, you know the rules of friendly-fire," the Texan reminded.

"Experiment or not, animals need not suffer. You do not agree, Engineer?"

"Even if he wanted to, you didn't give him much of a choice, eh?" the stranger cut in pointedly. "Either way, relax; the dogs are worth more than me even if I were made of Australium."

The Scout openly guffawed at that, but not due to the humour—or lack thereof. "What, weah ya comparin' prices of some Chinese menu?"

"Mhey mef dfgs?" the Pyro asked, horrified.

The Soldier suddenly stomped a foot. "DOGS ARE MAN'S BEST FRIENDS!"

"Da!" Heavy chimed in, just as disapproving.

From the far side of the room, where the Medic and Sniper had escaped to to avoid the noise, the two Support Classes stared at the commotion skeptically. A soft, barely audible hiss sounded, before they noticed that the Spy had joined the observation.

"Imbeciles, are zhey not?" the Frenchman inquired, offering a box of cigarette to the other two.

The Sniper glanced down at it for a second, before helping himself to one. "Such a fuss 'bout food. In the outback, you eat whatever's edible."

"It intrigues me on how you didn't die yet," the Medic casually said, declining the offered cancer stick. The Sniper scowled, but before he could snap back a reply, the infiltrator interrupted;

"What, if I may give my personal opinion, we should be intrigued by zhis experiment mentioned by our new... _colleague._" he tried not to spit the last word in disbelief.

The Medic nodded his head slowly. "Agreeable, but I don't see how zhat vould assist us in battle."

The Australian snorted. "Yer fergettin' this wanker'd do anythin' fer info, useless or not."

"Like your mozher." With that and a trailing chuckle, he vanished, and the marksman's kukri dug deeply into the plaster of the wall behind not a split second later. The latter snarled and spat at where the former had been.

The German tut-tutted. "Temper, Herr Sniper,"

"Bah," the other dismissed, stalking off. "All I need're patience and my eyes."

The doctor stood there, waiting. He glanced over at the others, now quarrelling over the rations that they were receiving, who cooked best and worst, and which country had the best food. His ears caught the word 'Oktoberfest' at least three times before he left for the infirmary.

He was not sure about the others, but there was a strange nag at the back of his mind. He brushed it off. It was probably his brain trying to arrange his thoughts of the stranger's unexpected arrival.

He straightened up.

This was not school. There was no teacher to encourage you to be friends and to be nice. It was all about killing, fighting, and winning. Of course teamwork was important to the nine, but not friendship—the Sniper fought with the Spy, the Medic disliked the Soldier, almost everyone feared the Pyro one way or another. It was not the hate that they express towards the REDs, but it was still tension, it was the contract.

They would accept the new recruit as a new colleague, maybe a good mercenary if he could be proven useful.

Hopefully the Administrator's decision was a good one.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm not proud of this chapter, considering the fact I had to change the last part to brighten up the story in some manner, according to the characters. In my opinion, I never really saw the mercenaries as friendly and warm, especially for the Support Classes. Hence, they'll be featured less often compared to loud, participative people like the Scout, not because of personal preferences, but because of their personalities.

Anyway, to the literature students, have fun analysing the characters. It'll tell you things that aren't outright stated.

Also, unlike Left 8 Cats, this fanfiction _does_ have a plot that my dear big sister helped me create. So stick around if you're into hidden secrets, plot twists and character development on the long run. I wagered this story will be less than twenty chapters, though, so don't worry.

Coming up next:_ "Goddammit, shut up you damn dog and let me finish."_

Pleasant days and peaceful nights.


	3. Jackpots

The sharp, sour smell of medicine and clean scent of antiseptic had faded into the background by the time he had settled down. However, the constant cooing of the many doves overhead did not, and neither did the ever constant ticking of the wall clock cease.

The Medic tickled Archimedes' chin with a gloved finger, smiling softly. He sighed, relaxed.

"Guess vhat zhe Administrator did today, Archimedes?" he began, oblivious that animals could not respond. "She hired a new person, created a vhole new Class. Granted, I'm glad zhat he's vasn't meant to take over any of our jobs, but zhe nine of us haf been vorking for years togezzer, using zhe same meshods everytime, ja, Archimedes?"

The sadistic dove cooed in response.

"She put zhe Neuling in, amongst us, viz no varning at all; admittedly strange for zhat voman." The German switched his focus over to the new set of papers he had received. He scanned them. Unfortunately, they were void of anything useful due to the editors. "Physically fit, zough a little on zhe lean side; relatively a healthy adult aside from… _anxiety attacks_?"

The surgeon furrowed his brows and looked up from the report to face the dove perched on his shoulder. "He didn't show any signs of anxiety today."

The bloodied bird just cocked its head, beady black eyes staring, childish but intense.

"I know it's still morning now-"

**_BANG!_**

All the doves squawked and fluttered about randomly, flying and crashing into each other, startled and surprised by the double swing-doors suddenly slamming open. The Medic himself jumped in his seat, before scowling.

How rude.

"LET THE DRUMBROLLS BEGIN! LET THE ANIMALS OUT AND LET THEM STAND ON THEIR HEADS AND PRAY THAT THEY DON'T BREAK THEIR NECKS BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE PLAIN UNFORTUNATE! FOR YOU ENTERTAINMENT AND-"

_Ruff ruff!_

"Goddammit, shut up you damn dog and let me finish."

The doctor watched several doves fly out of the door with growing irritation. A word that felt so foreign on his tongue left his lips in a growl; "_Trainer_."

The messy-haired handler grinned, two blue leashes gripping in one fist. He waved his free hand, before his expression flipped into shock and he immediately ducked. The two humans in the infirmary watched in silence as another dove escaped.

A certain Bostonian's scream was heard outside.

The Trainer looked back at the physician, chuckling nervously. "Eheheh… I'll get them back somehow." From behind him, the doors swung shut the moment two dogs padded to his sides.

"You had better. My impression of you as a reliable teammate has fallen already." The German said lowly. "Vhat do you vant?"

The other immediately straightened up. "I am here to announce that the Big Bertha is on its- wait, wait what?" He flipped through a small set of documents on hand. The stranger snuck a glance at the skeptical doctor. Again the shocked look crossed his face and his hands flailed wildly as though he was covered in bugs, throwing the piece of paper behind him.

"Wrong script. The Administrator gave me some instructions to follow and tasks to complete. One of them is for the ÜberCharge heart implant."

A sheet of paper was placed on the desk. The physician glanced down at it. "Perhaps you may prove useful on zhe battlefield, but, excuse my manners, I doubt it." He gestured over to the examination table, which the other sat on obediently. "You don't seem like a very destructive Class."

The two German Shepherds gathered around at the base of the table, audibly panting in the cool room. One of them was notably larger and more compact than the smaller, leaner one. Their cool silver eyes stared around the room in piqued interest.

Staring at the doves.

Said flock of smaller animals nestled close together, nervously twitching and fluttering their white wings, heads tilting and cocking this way and that on the lookout for the first signs of threat.

"Vhat are zhe dogs here for? Get zhem out." the Medic ordered as he opened a case to check on the heart implants he was sent. "Oh."

Inside the chest lay three familiar-looking ÜberCharge implants. The older man picked up one of two smaller ones, inspecting it.

"Oi, you two, shut up and sit down." the Trainer commanded the two dogs, irritated. "Hey Doc, do you want them on the table, too?"

The doctor remained silent. "_Was… zum Teufel… waren sie denken?_" he growled to himself, teeth gnashed. "_Ich behandle Menschen, keine Tiere!…_"

The younger male tilted his head. "Err, Medic, you all right?"

A heavy breath was released. "Ja, I'm fine," he murmured, reaching an arm out to pull a wheeled table of surgical instruments closer. "Lie down und remove your shirt."

"Doc, I study body language and psychology, and regardless what those German words meant, that growl says enough." the ex-performer said pointedly as he tugged off his shirt. An annoyed huff left his lips when a sleeve got caught. He tore it off violently, snarling at the inanimate object.

"You're zhe vone to speak,"

"I'm not the one hiding my anger," the other retorted without missing a beat.

The Medic did not bother responding elaborately, instead grunting. A soft metallic clank sounded as he picked up a scalpel, tilting it. The white lights overhead bounced off the stainless steel.

"Did zhe Administrator update zhe files for zhe Medi-Gun?" asked the German offhandedly.

The handler shrugged. "Dunno, why?"

"Zhen zhe Medi-Gun vill not vork for you, but let's experiment." A menacing simper curled upon his lips, one that he had not worn for quite some time and missed it. Healing was a chore, but testing was entertaining enough.

He turned around to switch on the infirmary's Medi-Gun that hovered above the table. Pale azure light flowed from the nozzle, fluid-like, and medical crosses of the same shade danced along with it. Death was no longer a threat to him and the other eight, but he could take no chances with the newcomer, first day or not, lest he had to attend another hearing from the Administrator.

Well, at least the dogs were obedient. All they did was sit there.

The surgeon focused back onto his patient. Ugly scars of red and brown seemed to riddle the latter's lean upper half, though mostly on his arms—some fading, some faded, others minor, several noticeable and clear enough to tell a story like a well-written book. Most of them were smudged, uneven lines while some were the shape and size of a coin.

Soon, war wound marks of bullets, fire, kukris and aluminium bats might join, if the injuries were not healed first.

"I'm surprised zhat you'd let an animal get zhat close to you." the doctor mused, eyeing a scar on the Trainer's face; they looked like teardrops, all pointed inwards at the steel-shade orb, three above and one below. To the physician, the mark was tilted to anti-clockwise slightly, and plainly stated that the attacker had been dangerously close to blinding the handler's left eye.

A nervous chuckle, one of guilt instead of fear, sounded. "Eagles, nasty little things, heh? But the crowds love 'em, so we give 'em."

"I understand zhe beauty of a bird's grace und agility, viz zhe delicate feathers fanning out from ving und tail." Without warning, the Medic plunged the scalpel into the Trainer's flesh, right below the collarbone. The latter cried out in pain and shock, his body reflectively jolting.

The dogs immediately left their post, barking gruffly and wildly. Whiteface, the larger German Shepherd, crouched and growled at the Medic, lips curled back to reveal sharp teeth in a vicious snarl. Harlequin, the leaner canine, instantly zipped about the room, howling fanatically in search for something.

"Stay still, Neubling," The knife sliced a clean cut down to the end of the patient's sternum. Blood slipped from the simple incision, made even bigger with the help of several retractors. He ignored the aggressive dog at his feet to admire the human heart, beating rapidly from what he assumed to be adrenaline.

It was certainly helpful in making less of a mess.

Surprisingly to both parties, the Medi-Gun did its magic; fortunately the retractors prevented the incision from closing up. Despite the cool, soothing sensation of the BLU Medi-Gun and the pain-numbing shock, the Trainer retained the look of disgust, bewilderment and horror.

The German chuckled. "Get used to seeing zhe insides of people, teammates' und enemies' alike, maybe even yourself." There were several sickening snaps and cracks of bones, enough to make an average person throw up by sound alone. "Reminds me of zhe time Engineer lost his right hand to replace it viz a robotic vone."

Overcoming the nauseating noises and the growing pain, the Trainer managed to contribute to the conversation: "So _that's_ what he's hiding under that glove?"

"Ja. Sawed it clean off, ve did." He continued chortling, obviously enjoying himself as he throw the snapped-off rib bones over his shoulder haphazardly. Several doves flew down to investigate.

Harlequin bounced back with a medium health pack in its jaws, bushy tail wagging in triumph. Whiteface continued growling, occasionally licking its nose for whatever reason.

"Down, Harlequin, I didn't ask for health. You too, Whiteface,"

Both canines froze and slumped. The smaller hound padded over to Whiteface, unconsciously slobbering all over the health pack between its teeth.

The Medic plucked out the scalpel that he had stuck into the Trainer' liver to slice away the main blood vessel from the latter's still-beating heart. It was warm and slippery in his gloved grip, a nostalgic sensation. His free hand wandered around for the instrument tray holding the implants.

"Let's see whether your heart's better zhan Heavy's, shall ve?" the surgeon smiled, sadistic and child-like. He plugged the device into the heart and brought it under the healing beams.

Just for the sake of-

**_SPOOSH!_**

It was too, too nostalgic.

The doves chirped and cooed in delight whilst the dogs yelped in surprise. The Medic just laughed as Archimedes and a few others doves flew over to bits of heart.

"How. The Hell. Am I still alive…?" the Trainer asked, dumbfounded, still in the state of horror.

"My question to you is"—the older man walked over to open the infirmary's fridge—"how are you not unconscious or sick yet?"

The handler suddenly found the ceiling interesting. "I don't know-"

"Tuez-moi! Il suffit de me tuer-"

The doctor shut the fridge door. "Ignore zhat."

"All right…?" the other drawled, unsure, before continuing: "Have you ever dug an ankus under the flesh of an elephant so hard until it screamed?"

"I don't vork viz animals, but I'm to assume it vas gruesome enough, ja?" The sadistic physician plunged the device into the mega baboon's heart and held it under the healing rays. He absent-mindedly allowed it to charge up when the Trainer spoke;

"Hey Doc, out of pure curiosity," he started, "how does the Medi-Gun work?"

The mega baboon's heart began beating.

"Electricity, Neubling, it multiplies zhe cells und gives energy, like zhe Respawn."

The handler chuckled. "You must be pretty proud of this invention, huh?"

Faster.

"Proud of an accident,"

_Faster._

"But it's a good accident?"

**Faster.**

"An unintended side-effect," the Medic said, disappointment and guilt lingering in his voice. He reached out to flip one of the healing gun's two switches.

All it took was a split second before the heart glowed brightly in a blinding flash, causing the Trainer to yelp in surprise and the dogs in stir at the sound of their master's distress.

The German simply dropped the heart back into the handler's chest cavity. He used both bloodied hands to redirect the beams.

The Trainer coughed violently, body jerking in rejection when the new heart was suddenly part of him and his ribs grew back. He cleared his throat and brushed it off. Once the pain had dulled, he spoke, "What the Hell was that light show about?"

"Zhe result of constantly healing the injured, or charging. Vhen zhat happens, you'll get an ÜberCharge." The Medic sat upright, dusting his hands from blood futilely. "My greatest find yet."

The Trainer propped himself up, feeling his chest, feeling the foreign beat of the new heart. "Wow, what does it do?"

"Invulnerability to zhe ozzer Team's attack, fall damage und drowning," the German answered casually, his voice heightening in pitch as he got more excited on talking about his achievements. "zhere're also types for critical hits; stuns, knockbacks und being slowed down; zhere's even vone for zhe type of damages!"

The handler punched the doctor in the shoulder good-naturedly. "That's dedicated cherry pie that even I can't do!"

"Cherry pie?" The latter raised a brow.

"Extra work, extra money," he explained vaguely, pulling his shirt on and rubbing his chest to ease the uncomfortable ache of a new heart.

The surgeon chuckled, in a good mood having shared his hard work's abilities. "Nein, zhey don't pay me any more zhan zhey pay zhe rest. It's zhe opportunity to experiment zhat they grant, along viz safety from zhe government und… supplies. Somesing zhey can still afford despite our current situation."

"Got it," The younger man jumped off the table. He struggled to carry Whiteface up onto the table. "So, how long does it take to Charge them?"

The Medic stared down at the hound, uninterested. "On average, forty seconds for zhe default, sirty seconds for both Kritzkrieg und Quick-Fix, und tventy for zhe Vaccinator. Vhy do you ask?"

"Harlequin, lay down and stay." the other told the dog. He looked up. "Nothing much, I just wanna see it in action; it's your performer's trick." The same friendly grin from the morning tugged at his lips. "Something a performer does with pride, but no one else except those of their specialty appreciates."

The doctor picked up his Solemn Vow, his free hand holding the canine's head still. "Go read somevone else's body language."

**_CLONK!_**

"Eh, Whiteface, where're ya running to?" The Trainer watched as the larger dog scrambled around, whining at his feet. He stared for a moment, before ignoring it. "What happens if you can Charge up faster than intended?"

The older man placed away his weapon and picked up his bloodied scalpel. "From experience, zhe Charge vould eizzer last shorter or heal slover."

Silence came from the other for about seven seconds, during which the German had sliced open the unconscious hound in piqued interest. "Hey Doc, can I leave Harlequin and Whiteface with you for some time? I figured that your doves are probably about in the base." He jerked a thumb towards the door.

"As long as zhey don't make a mess," The Medic pulled out a stomach, stare at it, before dropping it back in nonchalantly.

"All right! Whiteface, stay." He backtracked out. "If any of them give you trouble, just sternly say 'bad', 'no' or 'don't make me beat you'. I'll be right back!"

With that, he was out and gone.

The Medic looked down at the stronger dog.

"Ach, don't look at me like zhat,"

**_CLONK!_**

* * *

**A/N: **From this chapter onwards, we'll be exploring the characters (and little headcannons of mine, because everyone has one) and developing the interactions between the Team. On that note, the Trainer currently reminds me of Dussel from The Diary of Anne Frank for some strange reason. The only difference is that Dussel was somewhat awkward towards the Franks and the Van Daans, whilst the Trainer wasn't.

If you have any constructive criticism, or just a neutral comment, be sure to leave a review. It helps me to tell whether I'm doing things right, and what I can improve on for the better of my readers.

Coming up next: _"I liiiiiiiiiive!"_

And a whole bunch of other references.

Pleasant days and peaceful nights.


	4. Kid Pusher

The Sniper stared out of the window, bored.

Honestly, he was both bored and uncaring about his boredom. All he did so far was sit down in the attic and look out of the window.

The rain continued pouring, the entire scene a hazy blur.

That was just plain depressing, especially without his sniper rifle. Like the others, the majority of their weapons had been locked up to prevent them from blowing their entire base up for the umpteenth time; and, like the others, he only had his stock melee weapon handing from his belt.

The Engineer must have been the only one with guns, along with the Medic's non-lethal one.

The marksman sighed again, slipping his kukri into his hand to let his fingers slide along the curve, tracing the cool steel's edge.

He had the sudden urge to plunge the religious knife into flesh.

_Creak…_

The sharpshooter jerked into stillness for a split second. He spun around, ignoring the small sting from his left ring finger's tip, now wet with a red droplet. His silver eyes scanned the vacant room, kukri in hand as he stalked forward, shoes only making soft shuffles.

"No point playin' games, bloody RED Spy," he growled, wishing he had his Jarate to throw. "Yer either bloody brave or bloody stupid pickin' a fight with the Respawn off." He took another step forward.

Something small and white fell past right in front of him. The Sniper froze.

Was… that…?

Yep, it was.

He dared to look up. A white dove stared right back at him.

_Croo._

"What the Hell are you doing up here, ya lil' bugger?" He relaxed, both right arm and kukri falling to his side. "I'm surprised that ya managed to escape the infirmary without Doc screamin' and hollerin' at'cha to return."

The Australian reached out an arm towards to beam, his height proving it to be less than troublesome.

**_THUD!_**

"_Gah! Stars and stripes!_"

The Sniper recoiled instinctively and flung his kukri at the hatch in a split second. It dug into the new, unpolished wood with a dull thud and stuck there.

The hatch was thrown open, revealing the white plaster underneath, and an arm burst out dramatically, curled fingers twitching before making violent contact with the wooden floor. Its blunt nails dug futilely into said flooring.

"I liiiiiiiiiive!"

The assassin's right eye twitched behind his aviators. An alien word rolled stiffly from his tongue in response to the equally unfamiliar voice: "Trainer?"

Said person suddenly burst into the attic, dragging himself up like he had lost his legs. "So tell me what avian needs my guidance, clueless teammate. You just say the word and I'm there."

The Australian blinked in bemusement. He looked at the dove that had fluttered down onto his right shoulder. It looked back at him.

"And let me say something: anybody who's dumb enough to threaten Medic's escaped doves, vengeance will be miiiine!" The handler hauled himself up, completely forgetting that he had limbs called legs. And maybe feet.

The dove cocked its little white head, then glided over to peak at the newcomer with curiosity, tiny claws gripping locks of unkempt hair. Slip, grip, coo; slip, grip, squawk; slip, grip-

"Oh, hey lil' guy," The stranger cupped the bird firmly with both hands to examine it. "Good to see you're not hurt, that would be unhealthy."

Just as he started down the ladder, he seemed to notice the silent Sniper for the first time.

"Oh, hey Snipes,"

The taller male blinked slowly. "You talk like you've know us since kindergarten," he stated plainly.

"Yea, about that, the boss had me practice for the show." He shrugged and took a step down, but stopped abruptly. "Hey, Sniper, are you busy?"

The marksman shook his head, hesitant. "Jus' watchin' the strange weather. Why?"

The same grin appeared. "Wanna help me gather some of the doves back? It'll take your mind off Jonah's luck."

"And why, exactly, are they missing?" The assassin raised a brow.

"Doors. And they're not technically missing;" The other ducked back down. Upon reaching stable ground, he urged the dove into a large, wheeled cage, already holding a few white birds. The Australian noticed an observable plate on the side of the mini prison;

Mann Co.

Hmm, not much of a surprise, that.

"I… saw which direction they flew to while chasing them." the newcomer continued.

Not even a squeak sounded when the cage was pushed. The Sniper followed behind the new recruit. Curiosity crept into his mind as seconds ticked by.

The doves kept cooing.

"Let's see…Aristotle, Euclid, Lucretius, and now Sigmund." the Trainer listed, murmuring to himself. "About half the doves escaped…" He looked back at the marksman. "Two more too hunt down, shouldn't be too hard for you."

He was right—two small, plump, white, fluffy doves in this blue building? It was not a challenge even if he had to stand on his head. The birds probably would not stick onto the unpainted ceiling like the lizard the Engineer had swept off with a proper broom, anyway.

Or pretend to be pillows, or cotton balls, whichever was worse. Hell, make that snow.

Now if only it snowed everywhere in Badlands.

"So, I'm guessin' I'm 'pose to be getting' to know my new teammate?" the assassin started awkwardly, unsure.

"Huh?" The handler snapped to attention. "Err, sure; what do you want to know?"

The Australian hummed, thinking. "How… how do you attack? I mainly use a sniper rifle to pick off heads of idiots too slow or too still. You?"

"The Admin gave me two dogs to command," the other replied, looking around. His pace slowed. "They were both specially trained since young, since she had the idea."

"What, do they both atta-"

"Stop!"

The Sniper froze a split second after his new teammate. Several seconds passed before he was concerned enough to whisper, "What is it?"

The Trainer ducked low into the mess hall. "Stay low to the ground."

"Stay low to the- what?"

"Shhhhh…" He took a silent step forward. "Not a sound."

The marksman's face was contorted in skeptical bewilderment. He hunched over slightly and crept forward.

"Take it slow," the other advised to no one in particular. His metallic-grey eyes were locked on something on a chair's backrest. "One

"More

"Step

"And…"

He bolted forward at a surprising speed, arms tucked against his chest like a Tyrannosaurus rex before lunging out. The chair was toppled over.

The lanky man blinked, before his brain processed how silly the situation was and he stood upright instantly.

Both of the handler's hands shot up in triumph. "Got Avicenna!"

The dove squawked in his grasp, struggling. One of its wings, which stuck out from the hand-prison, flapped frantically.

"I wouldn't handle Doc's doves that roughly if I were you, rookie,"

"Bah, I've handled big cats and elephants." the Trainer dismissed, getting up from his knees to approach the cage. "Doves are harmless."

"I don't mean the doves, I meant that if Sawbone caught ya-" The Sniper did not complete his sentence; he held up a flattened, stiff hand, which flowed in a swift, slicing motion. It was dragged along his free hand's wrist, then the inner elbow, then down his torso, and lastly across his neck.

"Sushi?"

"For the birds."

"Oh," A conflicted look crossed the handler's face as he nudged the dove to join the rest. It vanished the second he looked up. The look, I meant, not the dove. If the entire cage was painted white, all you would probably see would be little black dots, occasionally disappearing with each blink. If that ever happened, I don't think I'd ever sleep again. I hate dots like that, when there're many of them. Then again, there'd only be five since birds have theirs on the sides of their heads. I think if you looked at them from in front, you should see semicircles, but that's still one circle split into two, right?

Anyway, enough about that, we have a story to continue, and I'm only going to continue because I've yet to write the good parts in future chapters. Now, where were we? Ah, of course:

"Meh," said the Trainer, shrugging with uncaring nonchalance, because really, what sensible mercenary fears death when there is money?

The Sniper was taken aback, but as per usual, his face portrayed no emotion. "Yer a strange one,"

"Isn't everyone here a freak?"

The marksman narrowed his eyes. He could take an insult from the REDs, even his teammates, anytime, but this, no.

Not from a bloody newcomer.

"A what?"

_Be polite, be efficient; be polite, be efficient._

"I dare ya ta repeat that, wanker."

_Be polite, be efficient._

He stood up to his full height, glowering at the newcomer.

_Be polite, be efficient._

_Have a plan to kill everyone you meet._

"For a newbie, yer sure full'a-"

"Whoa whoa whoa, calm down!" the Trainer reared back, hands raised in surrender. "I didn't mean to offend you—freaks are popular attractions from where I used to work!"

"Really." The word had no inflection; neither question nor complete sentence.

"Yes, really; why would I lie?" The handler's brows furrowed up, his mouth a nervous, lopsided frown, borderline pleading. "People flocked about the sideshows to see the Human Owl, Martin Laurello, or Mademoiselle Gabrielle, who I was told only had her upper body!

"You could be… you could be a rare breed of Australian!" The grin had returned, and the Trainer shifted his weight so that he leaned back on a bend leg, the other stretched out like his arms, all directed to the Sniper. Said mercenary did not know how to properly react to the sudden atmospheric change.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I PRESENT YOU THE RAREST BREED OF AUSTRALIAN YOU WILL EVER SEE! A WELL-WEATHERED, ADAPTABLE, ONE OF A KIND KILLER ONLY FOUND IN THE OUTBACKS OF AUSTRALIA! YES SIREE FOLKS, YOU CAN BET YOUR BUTTONS YOU HAVE AND NEVER WILL SEE THIS EXTRAORDINARY PROFESSIONAL ANYWHERE ELSE EXPECT RIGHT HEre…"

The Trainer trailed off, staring out the window.

Maybe it was due to his tendency to be alone, or his habit of watching the battlefield from the safety of his nest, but the Sniper strangely was one of those people who like to know what was happening where. After several seconds of inner arguments, mentally debating to himself, he found himself giving in to curiosity and habits.

"Whatcha starin' at, rookie?" He dared to join the stranger at the window. He removed his aviators and squinted, attempting to see past the veil of the storm.

Lightning flashed outside, staining his retinas with a velvety afterimage. A groaning thunder was dragged along after.

"**DOOOOOOOOOOVE!**"

The Trainer threw himself out the nearest exit and through the training field, under the harsh pelting bullets of rain. His combat boots plunged deep in the moist earth, and trails of disturbed mud were flung up into the air.

The Sniper watched. "Poor bloke's gonna get 'imself drenched," he remarked to himself. He pushed his aviators back up the bridge of his nose. He watched as the new, strange mercenary's figure became blurry and muffled by the sky's grieving tears. He walked over to the doorway out.

"Then the floor's gonna get wet an' muddy, then Engy'll start scoldin', then he'll try ta ground us, then chase us with the mop, threatening to shove it up our-"

"**I'M BACK!**"

The Sniper was roughly shoved aside by a barrelling Trainer, whose front part of his shirt had been tugged from under his belt to form a wet makeshift pouch of some sort. He was grinning again despite his current status; his untidy hair was flattened with water, and his uniform was absolutely drenched with rainwater. Even his boots complained, squishing and sloshing and crying muddy trails all over the once clean floor as his momentum slammed his back against the opposite wall, leaving yet another print.

"Pythagoras…" the handler panted, slight laughter edging his voice, "was hiding… outside." He opened the makeshift pouch slightly, simpering down at the white dove, its small body still fluffy with its waxed feathers. It warbled and fluffed its feathers, irritated, when droplets of rain fell from the Trainer's hair and the tip of his scarred nose, plinking onto it.

Then it sneezed.

A small, soft sneeze, from its tiny little beak.

The Trainer laughed, throwing his head back and against the wall with a hollow thud. He did not even cry out in pain when his feet lost their foot on the rain-wet-and-mud-slick floor, hitting the floor with another _thump_ and forcing his legs into awkward angles. The dove chirped sharply, squeezing its black eyes shut and shaking its entire body. The feathers were fluffed once again with the slightest _foomph _before settling down again.

The more laughter it heard, the sharper its chirp became, higher in pitch, short and loud.

"You're a cute one, Pythagoras," The Trainer scoped up the bird and held it at eyelevel. When it attempted to peck out his eye, it was jerked back with more chuckles. "I like you."

The handler looked up at the Sniper, who was watching the strange scene with uncomfortable awkwardness. The former offered the bird.

The marksman hastily shook his head. "Nah, m' good," He nudged the cage over with a foot. "I need my eyes, anyway. A blind Sniper's a useless Sniper."

All the doves seemed to coo in synchronisation at the sight of the last dove, fluttering about in the cage and grasping the bars with their tiny claws. Pythagoras was nudged inside to join the others.

The Sniper eyed the newcomer with bemusement when the latter stood up, shirt still a pouch, cradling something round. Curiosity got the better of him; he leaned slightly, peeking.

An egg.

A large egg, at that; maybe around six inches or so in length, judging by the bulge of the fabric.

He opened his mouth to speak, but decided against it the moment the Trainer grabbed the cage and began wheeling it down the hallway, one hand steering, the other supporting the egg.

The Sniper shook his head. He could not understand how he had unconsciously accepted the new recruit—or, at least, not disapproved—with so little details and notice. Maybe his mind took the newcomer as environmental change, one that he had learned to adapt to. Maybe he, like the Scout, reminded the Sniper of a younger brother, a pleasant role switch since he had left his family; here, the Australian was no longer the youngest child.

Whichever way, the Trainer was still a strange one.

Acting casual, like he had been through both the Gravel and Robot Wars, still he had yet to explain his battle tactics.

Strange.

* * *

The right door of the infirmary was gently closed by the Medic's gloved hand.

He sighed, relieved; having all his doves back seemed to calm him like a mother's lullaby, sonorous and relaxing.

Especially with the two hounds gone; sure, they gave him little to no trouble, being unnecessarily unconscious and all, but still, treating animals other than his own was not part of his contract. That and the surprise visit from the mysterious Spy, who had hung around using boredom as an excuse. He had left shortly before the Trainer came to return the escaped doves and fetch his dogs, exiting the room with his trademark Cloak-and-slip-out move.

Or, as the Scout normally said: 'Cloak-and-slip-out-because-he-thinks-no-one-can-s ee-him-even-though-we'ah-on-da-same-Team-which-mea ns-by-some-friggin'-weird-Mann-Co.-science-we-can- all-see-his-translucent-blue-silhouette-we-just-do an-notice-him-because-we-doan-have-friggin'-eyes-a t-da-back-'a-our-heads-what-does-he-think-we'ah-al l-friggin'-idiots-he's-da-one-covered-in-stickin'- piss-half-da-time'.

By then a butterfly knife normally found its way soundly into his back, but he would not bleed, or cry out, or feel pain. A fruitless attempt at team killing and friendly-fire, it was.

The German walked over to his desk, stealing a glance at the clock long enough to register the time of eight o'clock, before switching his focus to his table. Flesh blood stained the surface, his coat, and the parcel that he had gotten from the Administrator.

Hopefully, it would of profiles and samples from the newcomer and his living weapons.

But that would have to wait for later. Right now, he was subconsciously occupied with cleaning his desk of stains, a cloth in hand. He pushed his reports and blueprints aside, scowling at the paw prints across the desk's surface.

From all the reasons why he used up nearly all the bleach in the barracks, this was the strangest. At least the marks faded faster than the blue of his gloves. Once the German was satisfied, he swiftly rearranged his papers.

Then he frowned. Passively, yet frantically, he searched his desk and the area around it, ducking under the table, lifting the box, checking the drawers, even shooing Archimedes away.

"Verdammt noch mal," the doctor grumbled to himself, slamming a clenched fist against the table. He forced a shuddering breath of frustration out as gently as he could manage, turned on his heel and swiftly stormed out the room.

A print of red was left to dry steadily on the cool desk of the medical bay.

* * *

**A/N:** This story has a strange, annoying tendency to twist itself out of my hands until I catch it again. This chapter was quite different as compared to the first version, to be honest, so I'm not fully satisfied. Anyway, don't worry about the characters' attitudes and personalities; that'll all come in slowly as the Team adjusts. We have a whole ceasefire to write about.

Think of it as a human body getting used to a bionic limb.

Coming up next: _"It's an egg." "It's your egg."_

Pleasant days and peaceful nights.


	5. Charivari

Short **A/N**: A few months ago I told myself to personally reply and thank people who review, but for anonymous users, it's a tad different.

To Guest: I'm glad you like the story so far! I'm really putting in effort in the plot (though some of that energy could probably be used in story quality, too), and I hope you'll stick around!

* * *

Something soft and feathery poked at his nose.

The Demoman snorted in response, lifting a hand to brush it away. To his drunken dismay, it returned after several heartbeats, this time swishing against his nose almost intentionally and sadistically. He groaned, rolled over, and stuffed his face into the small space of air between the seat, armrest and backrest.

"Gah, quit scrambling, stupid dog," an unfamiliar voice scolded, quiet yet fierce. "Fine, fine, here."

There was a yip, then a hiss of claws scraping against the floor tiles.

Something tapped against the centre of the Scotsman's back. He groggily lifted his head up, single eye half-closed in his drunken haze.

"Wha?" he murmured, lethargic. From the corner of his sight, he caught something blue, something humanoid. He blinked slowly.

His back was tapped again.

"Up,"

Almost instantly, a sudden weight of forty kilograms slammed his breath out. The Demoman coughed, wheezing, before turning over with surprising agility. The weight was gone with a yelp, but returned shortly afterwards.

The drunkard focused his glazed grey eye on the brown-and-black thing sitting on his chest. It bent closer, tongue dangling from its open jaws, its breath utterly disgusting.

He pushed it off, strength firm but weak in his drunken state. It reluctantly scrambled onto the floor, whimpering. "Wha' did Scoot pick up this time?" he asked, words slurred, as he struggled to prop himself upright.

"Since when did I give you permission to jump off, damn dog?" the same voice chided, still foreign and alien.

He stared blankly at the lean, wild-haired stranger, willing his sight to focus, but all he could see was the haze of both light and dark blue, along with deep brown on top. "Who're ye?"

"Wow, you must've really drunk if you missed the bally," the other remarked, amused. Two blurry things of black and tan-brown were gathered at his boots, the smaller one straying further. In fact, it was right at the foot of the couch, sniffing the Demoman curiously before barking. Loudly.

The older man groaned and clutched his head, fingers digging into the black material of his beanie as a sudden pounding wave of nausea and pain ripped his brain inside-out.

Beyond his agonizing hangover was the almost-silent scratchy rustle of paper. The Trainer's grey eyes looked up from the one-page document in one of his bite-scarred hands, staring at the explosives expert. He folded the paper haphazardly and stuffed it into a pocket.

The sound of him clearing his throat was alien enough to catch the Demoman's attention; the latter blinked, his non-existent depth perception of a vision clearing up.

"Greetings, Sir Demolitions Man," the handler began in an unusual, overly exaggerated cultured voice, "it is of my greatest honour to announce to you of your most renowned achievement of all, one of bravery, determination, integrity and intelligence. It is truly one of glory and acknowledgement."

The stronger man blinked in bemusement, before smiling. "Why, thank ye, boyo," He paused. "But, wha' exactly did I do?"

"From observational reports, you have been considered the most suitable person in this area for this object of outmost rarity." With a dramatic pause and a solemn look, the brown-haired male pulled out something from behind his back, cradling it in his arms with gentleness akin to a mother bobcat.

"Congratulations, Sir Demoman," He wore a badly hidden grin.

"You are now a proud father of one!"

At first, silence; then-

The Scotsman burst out laughing, true, full and heartily. "Ooh, me mom's gonnae love th' news!" he bellowed, hugging his stomach. "Except th' fact tha' bein' a father doesn't earn anythin', but there be family trade an' explosives!"

The younger mercenary joined the gaiety moment, chortling. The dogs, other the other hand—or paw—whined, confused at the laughter. Taking it as positive feedback, they allowed their furry tails to wag gently.

Once the laughter died down, the Demoman was the first to speak: "Wait, I donnae r'member couplin' wi' any lassies-"

"Here's the child."

And with that, a pale, round, six-inch-long object wrapped in cloth was placed on his lap gently; the supporting hands only leaving once the drunkard gingerly slipped his arms around the young, awkwardly cradling it.

The Demoman blinked, sober enough to comprehend the situation. The Trainer grinned, more expectant than sheepish.

"'Tis an egg." the Scotsman deadpanned, expression puzzled.

"It's your egg." replied the handler.

The older man looked up. "I never gave birth t' an egg,"

"No, but you could've," the other suggested.

The bomb expert hummed, thinking. "Maybe, but how can ye be sure?"

"You were drunk."

"S'true, laddie," The Demoman stroked his chin, deep in thought. "What's its name?"

The ex-circus performer shrugged. "It's your kid; you name it."

The Scotsman held the egg up regally, oblivious to Harlequin's startled yelp when its owner yanked it back from sniffing the new unborn child.

"I think 'Eggy'd be a good name," he concluded, squinting his only grey eye at it.

"Eggy?"

"Eggy."

"'Eggy' Eggy or 'Eggie' Eggy?" the Trainer inquired.

The demolitions expert raised a brow. "What difference does it make?"

"Spelling-wise ones," was the reply; "then there's ink."

"Ink?"

"Ink."

"Ink, hmm;" The older man paused to think, his head still buzzing a tad from the alcohol. "Eggy, then."

"As in Eggy with a 'Y' and not an 'I-E'?"

"I-E?"

"All right," The Trainer flumped onto the sofa suddenly, settling beside the Demoman. He warningly swatted the air before Whiteface's snout when it stood on its hind paws to prop its forepaws on the armrest by its owner's side. The hound immediately dropped back on all fours on the ground. "Sober enough yet, Demo?"

Said person nodded slowly, uncertain. "Aye, I think," he eventually murmured. "Did I jus' adopt an' name an egg?"

"It's not _just_ any egg, Demo!" the handler insisted, splay-fingered hands gesturing. "Not even a titan chicken!"

"Yer right, boyo!" the veteran mercenary exclaimed, his eye widened in realisation. The side of a clutch fist made contact with his other palm. Then he paused. "Wait, what's it, then?"

"It- uh… it- it's beyond my range of eating," the younger mercenary admitted, gazing at the egg.

The Demoman joined the staring competition. "I say we brin' it to Medic," he proposed.

"He'll kill it. You know he will. He'd kill your child."

The Scotsman's gaze flickered over to the stranger. "S'pretty grim foe a newcomer tae say."

A casual shrug lifted the other's lean shoulders. "Meh,"

After a moment of silence, the drunkard spoke: "Welp, me mom always told me this: When hatchin' things, be it eggs or seeds, there's one way an' one way alone:

"Ye gottae do it their way."

* * *

"No, Pyro,"

"_Bft Enmfy!_"

"Look, firebug, as much as it's proper t' be polite, y' know Ah hate things like this. So do you, Heavy,"

The Engineer sat at the desk of his workshop; the top half of his stocky body was turned away from the blueprints he was working on, both old and new, to focus on two of his teammates that had interrupted his work to confront him. Without his wielding goggles, his metallic-grey eyes clearly swirled with reluctance and understanding sympathy. His right hand's thickly-gloved fingers drummed against the new wood. "Y'all remember what happened when Spook was introduced, right?"

The Heavy nodded. "Three months after recruitment, da,"

"Bft tfsh wunf's dpherfnt, Mph knph," the firebug insisted, before looking behind at the floating blue Balloonicorn. "Yph shfw hfm, rmpht?"

The plush-like creature just nodded happily.

The Engineer sighed. "Ah give him credit f'r not actin' all high-classy an' stuck up, but mah question is: different t' what degree?" he asked.

"Is distinctive," replied the Heavy, whose answer was agreed by the Pyro. "Sudden or not, should have proper welcome."

This time, the mechanic groaned.

Something tugged at his overalls. "Plhfs?"

"… Fine," he said after several heartbeats as he pushed himself up and away from the table. He glanced longingly at his blueprints, and snatched one up from the table. "But if he turns out worse than Spah, Ah'm blamin' y'all."

"Yph!" the Pyro cheered, smiling childishly under the gasmask whilst leading the way. The firebug skipped alongside the smiling Balloonicorn.

The Heavy walked beside the Texan, oblivious to the latter's reluctance. Instead he focused on the pyromaniac of the Team. "Does leetle Pyro know where to go?"

"Nfp!"

The Engineer sighed for the umpteenth time. As much as he enjoyed the Pyro's company and appreciated the anti-Spy protection, he knew one thing was certain:

This was going to drag for some time.

* * *

He did not know whether he regretted splitting up or not.

For one point: Doing such an action was meaningless in the BLU barracks, considering its size and the fences that kept them caged inside—for safety reasons, of course.

Safety of the mercenaries, their families, and Mann Co.

Certainly something that should never be risked, especially with the Administrator in control.

The Engineer sighed. Twenty minutes wasted, walking around slowly for the only unfamiliar mercenary in the entire base. Twenty minutes that he could have spent analysing the gibberish on the blueprint that he had… found—yes, found was an appropriate word—on the battlefield several weeks ago.

Five full seconds of invulnerability, just by exiting a Teleporter.

He had made a mental note earlier to discuss the stolen idea with the Medic. The neatly rolled-up blueprints sat snugly in one of his belt pouches.

Then again, the German was probably busy at this time; he did, after all, call the Heavy to assist him in an experiment. Who else in the entire base was better at enduring pain?

The Pyro, on the other hand, had ran off, frantically mumbling something about Pyroland being flooded and promised to meet up with him later.

Just as he entered the mess hall, the Engineer was met with an unusual sight. The Demoman and Trainer were sprawled out on the floor, with all the lights turned on and the room's lamp—Hell, even the microwave and toaster—near them. Bottles of Scrumpy, both empty and not, were scattered around. Despite the heat, both males seemed to be content, blinking lazily at the Southerner, their grey eyes slightly glazed with alcohol's effects. The drunken Scotsman had a large egg on his belly, stroking it with the loving tenderness of a parent as he grinned at the Texan. "Hey, hardhat,"

The addressed man simply gaped at them for a moment. "…What in tarnation?"

A lean German Shepherd padded over to him, sniffing him curiously before barking, its tail wagging happily as it circled the stocky builder.

The Engineer subconsciously patted the canine's head, walking forward. The larger dog watched him with unreadable grey eyes, sitting vigilantly and silently. "What, on Earth, are y'all doin'?" He stopped in the middle of the chaotic mess, staring down at the Demoman is skeptical disapproval. He knelt down to help the Demoman up.

Said person chuckled in his happy-drunk state of mind, murmuring incoherent words as he righted himself into a crossed-leg sitting position. He simply held up the egg.

"An… egg?" The Texan shook his head, a hint of amusement edging his voice at his teammate's silliness.

"We couldn't bury it under fallen leaves in this weather," the Trainer mentioned, much more sober compared to the Demoman. As if on cue, lightning slammed itself against the Earth, banging and rattling the door, screaming for Earth to pay the goddamn rent because Earth was too goddamn drunk and depressed after realising that it had more than one kind of cancer.

Not literally, of course.

Well, maybe a little bit.

"Y' know, fellas, Ah could always build an incubator," the shortest man offered. "As long as Ah have the right details 'bout temp'r'ture an' all. Can Ah see the egg?"

"Sure," the Demoman said, before burping. Again he held up the egg, though notably higher due to the request.

The mechanic hardly had a bare second to touch the unborn creature before his teammate jerked it away. "Demo, c'mon,"

"Ye said ye'd only be _seein'_ it,"

He sighed. It felt like dealing with children. Well, men-children, to be most specific. "All right, all right; can Ah hold it?"

"It has a name, you know," the handler chirped happily as he pawed at Whiteface's tail; it flicked away at every contact. The German Shepherd whined in confusion, dropping its tense guard to sniff at its owner's scarred hand, before licking it. The next thing it knew, the Trainer had grabbed it in some sort of headlock.

The Trainer laughed, like a child playing with a brand new toy, as Whiteface yelped and scrambled in panicked bewilderment.

The Engineer watched, uncertain of how to respond. "Uh, okay, what's its name, son?"

The Demoman answered for the stranger with drunken parental pride: "S'Eggy,"

"Eggy?"

"Eggy."

"Eggy with a 'Y'?"

"Aye,"

"I-E?"

"Nah,"

"Wait, couldja spell it?"

"Egg, Y,"

"What-"

"Look, we've already been through this," interrupted the Trainer, who was now sitting nonchalantly with the alpha dog sitting next to him, back hunched and eyes unsure—but not wild—on what to make of the situation. He seemed to have had sobered up quite efficiently, probably before now, and the Texan guessed that, unlike the Scotsman, the new mercenary knew how to control his alcohol intake. "By the time you're done, he'll be sober."

The Engineer blinked. Something was nagging at him from the back of his head, something that was not a technical problem, much to his frustration. He redirected his focus to the egg, observing it in his ginger grip. He sucked an inward hiss, grey eyes looking at the Demoman. "Ah can't help if Ah dunno wha' sorta animal this is. Sorry, pardner,"

The Scotsman was handed back the egg, which he accepted with careful hands. "Can't we jus' keep it warm, truckie?"

"Ah jus' 'fraid that if it ain't at the right temp'r'ture, it may not hatch, one-eye," the Southerner reasoned. He tugged his goggles over his eyes, thankful when bright glare of the lights dimmed sufficiently.

"Unless you're willing to take a chance with Lady Luck," the Trainer put in, his words both appreciated and not from either parties. He looked around, lips pursed in a thin line, before he continued stroking through Whiteface's thick coat.

The explosive-expert shook his head, eye wide. "No, not with my child!"

"Your kid…?"

"I'll take care o' it, regardless o' 'em fancy egg-warming microwave toaster oven igloos!" declared he, confidently with a fist pump. He flumped back onto the floor heavily. Harlequin trotted over, sniffing the now-limp body, only flinching away when Whiteface gave a fierce commanding bark. The smaller dog padded away with uncertainty in its light, quick steps, then turned to join the Engineer. It stuffed its snout into his ammo pouch.

The Texan shooed it away gently. "Go on, git, poocho," he said, "ain't got any treats fer ya right now."

"_Pfft…!_" the handler choked, failing to stifle his chortles. For a moment the mechanic wondered if the now-rambling mercenary was still drunk. "What treat? A big cage? Fresh food? Maybe clean water? Ooh! How about proper rest? That's something they'd beg for!"

"Son-"

"Okay, maybe not beg, more of jumping through hoops of flames and dancing on tricycles, but still!" The Trainer looked at Whiteface, rocking it encouragingly. "How 'bout it, White? You want a treat?"

It tilted its head, whining in bemusement. Then it barked and stood up.

"That's the spirit!" There was a clap of hands.

From his side, the Demoman hugged Eggy protectively, the drunk-blush still on his face. When the newcomer tugged at his sleeve, a rumble of distrust rose from his throat, only settling once he had realised that the egg was not wanted.

The alpha dog was ushered to take in his scent—explosives and alcohol, mostly.

"See this man, Whiteface? He's the Demoman," said the handler, "now go find something that belongs to him- no not his boot, you idiot. Oi, oi, let go of Demoman's boot."

Whiteface growled past a mouthful of the Scotsman's left boot, crouched in stance as it wrestled in a one-sided match with the drunkard for the shoe.

The Engineer nudged away Harlequin's inquisitive snout subconsciously, idly watching as said footwear plopped off with a comical _POP!_ The stronger German Shepherd fell backwards by a short distance, in turn sitting on its haunches. It shook its prize vigorously, snarling playfully-

Wait what? What friggin' type of snarl can actually sound playful? Are you kidding me? Are you partially brain-damaged? For the love of Science-

The Trainer tugged at the boot firmly. "No, bad boy, it's not time to play Tug-O-War."

Another growl-whine sounded.

"Drop the boot. _Drop it._"

_Rrrrr…_

"Don't make me beat you."

Whiteface whimpered reluctantly. The boot was released with a dull, dead thud.

The Trainer smiled. "Good boy," He tossed the boot over to the Demoman; it bounced off harmlessly. "Here."

The drunkard hardly noticed.

The Engineer cleared his throat as he blocked Harlequin's nosy snout—heh, nosy, snout, get it? Oh never-mind—with his gloveless hand. "Uhm, mister, could ya kindly take yer pet back? Ah'm 'fraid he'll get attached t' me," he requested with a nervous chuckle, somewhat relieved that throughout the strange scene he had just witness, the newcomer resembled nothing like the Spy.

Absolutely nothing, at that. Now that the mechanic was up close and personal, as compared to this morning's distant sighting, he could clearly register and compare the traits of the stranger and the Frenchman of the Team. Whilst the Spy was known as the suave, proud and sly one of secrets and the personal-attack type of insults, the Trainer appeared somewhat goofy and talkative to the Texan, as well as messier and more carefree appearance-wise.

Not to mention the threats of violence, which was good, he supposed, considering the fact that they were all mercenaries, paid to fight. Hell, even the Medic, the healing unit of BLU, was violent—or morbidly curious—enough to slice up bodies if he was not busy attending his screaming, bleeding, burning, and somewhat limbless teammates. Then there was the Pyro, who was the exact opposite of violence in that imaginary world of candy and rainbows. The Heavy was a brilliant example with his strength; he could kill people with his bare fists-

Oh, wait.

_Now_ he remembered why he was there.

Weighing his decisions, the Engineer figured that sitting down to join the drunken bomber, strange newcomer, and two dogs—the follower now chewing on the rubber glove of his bionic hand—would do no harm. So he did just that, with the left leg stretched out before him comfortably, and the other bent to support his right elbow.

Harlequin continued chewing on the thick yellow glove, growling and shaking its head, like Whiteface did earlier to the Demoman's boot.

Said larger watched silently, with no indication whether it approved or was annoyed of its younger partner-in-crime taking after its actions.

The Trainer eyed the Engineer when the latter raised his free hand to pat Harlequin. He grinned. "So, now that that's, what's up, Engy?"

The Texan flinched lightly, unnoticeably. The sound of his title's nickname pronounced by such an unfamiliar voice unnerved him to some degree. "Pyro an' Heavy wanted t' welcome ya to th' BLU Team," he started. "But apparently both of 'em were called away f'r one reason or another, so Ah'm th' only one here f'r now."

He looked over, then smiled as friendly as he could conjure up. Sheepish hopes squeaked under skeptical doubt's gaze at the back of his mind, and he tried not to remember the day that the BLU Spy was introduced. However, he could not, so instead he prayed that time would not repeat itself.

"Either way: Welcome to the BLU Team, son,"

The Trainer grinned even wider. "Hey, thanks, Engy," he said. "No one's properly welcomed me since this morning, not even Py',"

The mechanic raised an eyebrow. "Not even firebug?"

"Mm-hmm; thought that I wasn't part of this Team. Must've been the lack of blue-"

"TAKE MEH HOME TAE MEH SHOE!" bellowed the Demoman, his entire frame rocked in a spasm, and he fell limp on the floor.

The Engineer and Trainer waited until the newfound silence was shattered by snores. The latter hushed the whining smaller hound curtly, before picking up the conversation again:

"Still have the coat and hat, anyway; the Admin lady didn't take them back."

The Texan perked up at the word 'hat'. "Keep th' second one, son, might do you good. All that's left t' do is name it."

"Name it?" the ex-circus performer asked, voice twisted with bewilderment. "Like what, 'Messenger Misfortune' in memory for all the ones you guys killed?"

"You heard, huh?" The older man's lips pursed themselves into a thin line. He hummed. "Good enough, Ah 'pose," said he. "Anyway, back on th' subject of you as a new recruit: Have you—hmm…—have ya explored th' base yet?"

"Err… somewhat," replied the Trainer, shrugging. He stuffed his left hand into the pocket of his pant. A small white piece of paper, folded neatly, was produced, then presented to the mechanic. "Not physically, mostly."

The other male took and unfolded it. His eyes widened at the accurate depiction of the entire BLU barrack's layout. Training grounds, mess hall, dorms, workshop, infirmary, everything, then a whole bunch of nonsensical words as side notes. His attention snapped back to the newcomer.

"Where in Sam's Hell did you steal this from, son? If th' Admin finds out, she might-"

"That's the point; _she _gave it to me." With a proud-child simper, the handler took back the map, swiftly folding it and slipping it back into his pocket. "I'm not performing without practice, especially since it's the scary lady's instruction."

"So, yer sayin' that this whole"—the Engineer gestured towards the Trainer—"attitude's an order?"

The handler's grin dropped slightly into something more unsure and nervous. "Yeeeaa…" he drawled, bringing a hand up to scratch the back of his neck. "Kinda,"

The Engineer subconsciously drummed his fingers against his leg, thinking on how to carry on the conversation. After awhile, he spoke, "Did ya practise f'r th' missions, then?"

The younger mercenary seemed to shrink under the other's passively curious gaze. "Uhm, well, honestly speaking, no." he admitted, chuckling nervously. "B-but Miss Pauling gave me all the information I need for all the different missions!"

"All o' 'em? Even Mann versus Machine?"

The Trainer cocked a brow. "What's that?"

"She didn't, huh," commented the Texan. "Y' see, newbie, 'bout a couple'a weeks before you came 'round, there was this big fight we call the 'Robot War'." Upon seeing the newcomer lean forward in piqued interest, the mechanic was encouraged to continue: "Everyone, all eighteen mercenaries from both BLU an' RED, had t' work together t' defend the Mann Co. facilities.

"It turned out tha' our employers, Blutarch an' Redmond, had another brother. Now, Ah dunno why tha' man—Grey Mann—killed off his two other siblings by hittin' th' kill switch. More like unpluggin' mah grandpa's Life-Extendin' Machine, actually. 'Cause of tha', we had no work. At least until Saxton Hale rehired us to kill Grey's army of 'bots since he was too busy fightin' yetis.

"Was kinda like what it is now: If we won, we get cash from wreckin' the robots. Most o' th' time, Scout's th' one picking up th' money, and after battle we split it-"

"Wait wait wait," the Trainer interrupted, shaking his head as he sat upright. "Back up to the first bit of the last bit: What's the concept of payment here again? I mean, sure, the Admin lady told me pay would be good, but tough, but she didn't tell me a lot."

The Engineer's eyes seemed to dim behind his goggles in what felt like pity, or sympathy. He could not tell it himself. Hesitation held him back, hugging his arm and murmuring sweet discouragement into his ear. He tore himself away from it. "Well, son, Ah'm not sure if havin' you here'll help this fact, but, well, y' know how our original employers are dead?"

The handler nodded slowly.

"An' how we defeated Grey?"

Another slow nod.

The Texan swallowed thickly. He hated to remind himself of negative things. "Apparently, th' reason we're all still here, fightin' each other, s'cause the Admin still has money—an' her sadistic attitude.

"She only pays the winnin' Team at the end of each month."

The Trainer's simper dropped once more. His eyes grew wide with worry. "Damn…" he mumbled, "so, why don't you guys just-"

"Quit?" The mechanic smiled sadly and allowed himself to release a short, humourless chuckle. "We can't; she has too much information 'bout us an' our families. We might be merciless, paid professional killers, but we still have families back home."

Hesitation glided over to the younger male, tugging at his mind. "I… I heard that whoever upsets the Admin in any way is never… never found the day after that."

"Exactly. We'll work here until she's outta money, then hopefully make it back home with only lesser memories." Another humourless chuckle, followed by a sigh of mixed emotions.

Soft footsteps hissed in shuffles down the hallway outside, and the two conscious men looked up.

"Mph?"

A certain Whatever's masked head popped in from around the corner. It gave a muffled, happy chirp, jumped on the spot and clapped its gloved hands together. The Pyro pranced into the room, talking up a muffled storm whilst joining the three mercenaries on the floor.

"Mph glmd Mph fumph yfp! Sphry Mph hfd tuf leshf junf nphw, Mishtfr Baphonnyfcgn wphs puhnfshim ovph Pyrflgund flphdshing-"

"Whoa whoa, slow down, Pyro, ain't no rush here." the Engineer quickly cut in, both hands patting down on the air before him.

The Trainer was grinning by his side. "Hey Pyro,"

"Hph Trmpher-" the pyrotechnian abruptly stopped. "Oh, murph, Gph."

The two other teammates followed the hollow black gaze, slowing to a halt at the two canines resting on the floor. Harlequin gave a short, curt whine, and released the Engineer's gloved mechanical hand. The handler simply smirked;

"Hey, Whiteface," he called. The hound immediately perked up in attention, staring as its owner jerked his head towards the Pyro. "This is Pyro.

"_Attack._"

* * *

**A/N:** Ironic part of this chapter: The Demoman is one of my favourite Classes to play on Team Fortress 2, yet in past fanfictions, mainly unpublished beta work (the story of the Trainer has been rewritten four times, each concept changing until this one), I don't normally write about him. He is, like the other characters, very interesting to write about with his own loud, drunk, myth-believing behaviour. The instant I wrote about the interaction between he and my OC, it reminded me of a conversation I had with a good friend: Somewhat random, messy, and just throwing out what you know. It was a wobbly chat, but fun as Hell.

Then there's the factor that a drunkard and an overly-friendly-and-casual-acting person would just get along without realising that on Earth was going on.

Anyway, bear with me with the start of the story circling the Trainer, it'll end by the end of the orientation, and at the start of the next mission. I'm trying to get rid of as much Gary Sue points that the Trainer currently has right now (which is about six on the Universal Mary Sue Litmus Test).

Coming up next: _"Do you miss fresh air, Pyro?_"

Pleasant days and peaceful nights.


	6. Banjo Light

I shall call this section RTA—Replies to Anonymous—because I can't think of anything else.

Attacus Atlas: Thank you for the reviews! Yea, I'm one of those people who like explaining indirectly (it's more interesting in my opinion). That being said, I shan't say why the barracks seem new, but I shall mention Gray to paint a small image. Thank you for pointing out my mistakes. Keep up the inference and interpretation!

* * *

It was a flash of movement to the Engineer, one too quick to comprehend. However, the Trainer saw exactly and perfectly what his weapon did: it crouched onto its haunches, powerful muscles rippling underneath the thick brown-and-black coat, and instantly sprang forward. Its jaws were open in a beastly snarl as it slammed itself against the Pyro, throwing the latter back onto and against the hard floor.

Its fangs sunk right through the both suit and body like they never existed.

The firebug squealed, before laughing gleefully and ruffling the German Shepherd's fur good-naturedly. The hound recoiled back, confused at the display of childish affection, and started sniffing its target curiously. Fire, asbestos, rubber, ash—overall, bitter. Whiteface snorted and clambered off. The Pyro just whined when the canine retreated back to its owner, however cooed in delight when the smaller dog cautiously padded closer to investigate.

The Trainer freely chortled at the startled face of the Engineer, whose mouth was slightly agape at the sudden 'attack'. He elbowed the older man as his free arm stretched out to welcome the alpha dog back. "Oh, cheer up, Engy," he said, "team kills don't exist here, remember?"

"Heh, yea," the Texan replied. "Ah was a tad distracted at th'… erm… sudden display of hostility."

"Don't worry about that, the dogs're too dumb to survive battle without commands." said the handler, waving a hand in dismiss of the thought. "The only smart thing about them is that they only follow one person's orders, and one alone."

The Pyro looked up from hugging Harlequin. "Refmy?"

"Yep! Go on, Engy," the leaner merc urged said person, "tell Whiteface to do something."

The mechanic blinked. Now that the Pyro was here, he had unconsciously allowed himself to drop his guard, almost instinctively. The man switched his focus onto the stronger hound. He offered a hand, palm up.

"Shake."

The German Shepherd dog eyed the Engineer, gaze blank as though deaf.

"Mph wphna trf!" called the Pyro, who stretched out an arm towards Whiteface. "Cphm hrgf, pgnufy!"

No response.

"See? Dumb, but loyal." The Trainer held out his hand, similar to how the Engineer did earlier. "Shake."

Whiteface tilted its head, before lifting a paw and resting it on its owner's open palm. It drew back the moment it heard the praise of, "Good boy, Whiteface,"

The Pyro clapped happily, cheering, and the Texan, too, allowed himself to smile.

"So war dogs can learn pet tricks too, huh?" the latter mused.

The younger shrugged with a wide grin. "Well, it's nice to know that even dogs don't always fight, yea?"

"Guess so," The Engineer mirrored the other's action, but his simper more modest. "Ah think they'll help you fit in; th' Team won't accept any new Classes unless they win th' first mission with the newbie's help. In this case, you an' yer dogs."

"The same happened to Spy?"

The Pyro made a confused sound from behind the gasmask. "Hfw dph ypf kphw?"

"Err… Admin," responded the Trainer, "yea, she told me about the past incidents, warned me not to end up like them." With a ghost of playful grin tugging at his lips, he continued, pushing himself up to stand. "I wanna be like you guys, _real_ mercenaries, not some background prop."

He offered a hand to the Pyro, who took it after a second of confused hesitation. The latter was firmly pulled up to join the former, and was indirectly and wordlessly ushered to mirror the new recruit's child-like movement of swinging each other clockwise, which proved amusing to the Engineer. The firebug tilted its head in bemusement, but played along, nevertheless.

Even when the newcomer's next few words turned musical.

_I wanna be like other mercs_

_Have killing sprees like other mercs can_

_Act mercilessly like other meeercs…!_

_Get to-_

"HEY PY'!"

The sudden new voice startled all three conscious people, and the two swirling mercenaries accidentally lost each other's grip. Momentum sadistically threw them in opposite directions—the Pyro landing roughly on the Demoman, and the Trainer smashing against one of the table legs.

The Scout entered the room just in time to hear three startled cries sound simultaneously as both stumbling mercenaries landed and the Scotsman was startled awake. If one were to sum it all up, it would end up as the single word of: "GAH!"

Then the demolition expert reflectively kicked off the firebug, so add another one to that count, but muffle it up like overkill.

Somehow, even the good-natured Engineer could not help but chuckle as he watched the three pick themselves up. "Y'all ain't hurt none, right?"

"Npf," The Pyro looked around, trying to get hold of its bearings once more. Its shaded sight still tilted from spinning earlier.

"Aye, fine," replied the Demoman. He held up Eggy. "Me egg's good too, see?"

The runner bounced over, looking around at the small mess he caused. "An egg? Ya serious? Hell, dis Team's nevah gettin' sane with-" He froze abruptly when laughter sounded—not maniacal laughter, or a nervous sort, just the laughter that a sincerely delighted person would make. His grey gaze slowly shifted to focus on the source. It settled at the main table.

And at the idiot currently rubbing a sore spot on the back of his head, making his brown hair even more haphazardly matted than before.

"Screw your double negatives," the stranger chortled. He pushed himself up to join the others—the amused Engineer, now-awake Demoman and the sudden Scout whom the Pyro was joyful to see. The Trainer, too, mirrored the firebug's reaction, but more of interest than excitement.

Outside, thunder cried out in pure horror at lightning's new make-up. "OH GOD, WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOURSELF, WOMAN?!"

Wait, that was a little too stereotypical, right? Or am I the only female that gets weird out by women wearing too much make-up?

You know what, never-mind, we're getting off-track here.

Anyway: Lightning and the BLU Team.

The Engineer waved the Bostonian over. "C'mere, sit down an' join us, young'un," he called. "Th' new one ain't like Spy, ya don't hafta defend yer mother's honour."

"Again," murmured the Demoman. He took a random, unfinished bottle from the mess and gulped down the remaining Scrumpy.

"Could say da same fah ya liver's ninety-second death," retorted the Scout, taking a place in between the Pyro and Engineer, with the stranger and Scotsman in front. He slouched forward, resting his right arm on a knee. "Wassup Py'? Was wonderin' where ya bounced off to. How's Pyroland?"

The arsonist immediately broke out into a whirlwind of mumbling nonsense and crazy flashes of hand gestures, which both speedster and mechanic seemed to understand perfectly.

The drunkard, on the other hand, did not bother registering any words. "Me kid's cryin'," he simply stated. With the blankest expression and his egg in his arms, he left the room in search for a proper nest for his child because let's face it, not many people write about the drunk Demoman during ceasefire because he's more fun in the battlefield.

We'll get to that later, just bear with this crappy orientation. I'm impatience with it, too, you know.

Hell, are we getting off the subject again? Damn…

Here, have more of the Scout:

"So, ya da new kid, eh?" he began, switching his attention over to the newcomer. "Nice ta meet'cha, I'm da Scout heah, fastest of 'em all."

The stranger drew a small note out from his left shirt pocket and unfolded it. "So I heard," he commented offhandedly.

The Engineer chuckled.

"I tell ya, kiddo, if ya need any help at all, I'm ya man. Think of me as da mentor of da Team, team player sorts. Newbies always need improvement, ya know? An' it doan matter how much Solly's yellin' at'cha if ya listen to me- ah ya even listenin', newbie?" With annoyance and what felt like borderline indignation, he snatched the newcomer's note with a single swift swipe. "Hey, I'm givin' ya a head start with dis war thing; what's dis piece'sa crap gonna do? Give ya magic powers ta shapeshift an' speak ta animals?"

Having his note literally taken—or stolen, in this case—seemed to enrage the stranger for the first time. "Oi!"

"Why ah you so fazed? S'jus'a bunch'a numbers," reasoned the runner. "One nine zero three one five two one two zero- what's dis, some friggin' Morse code?"

"Mrph?" The Pyro leaned over out of curiosity.

The Texan clucked his tongue. "All right, Scout, give the new boy back his papers; they're from th' Admin." He jerked his head towards the corner of the ceiling behind him, at the unscratched Mann Co. camera.

Almost instantly, the Bostonian swore and smacked the note back to the stranger, as though it were a dead, maggot-covered rat.

The Pyro giggled. "Nphf tg scf tmgt yph'mf nft cphshing trmgle fbr wnsf,"

The runner simply huffed. "Trouble? Ha! I'd rather go through Hell than sit f' a hearin'," he brushed off, before adding: "unless it's f' Miss Paulin'. I'd kill f' her."

"You kill everyday, jackrabbit," commented the mechanic pointedly.

'Yea; didn't'cha know? Da Admin has'a whole bunch'a cameras, they're probably _spilling_ with my awesomeness." beamed the Scout, whose thumb pointed towards his chest in an overflow of confidence as his wore a smug grin.

The handler raised a brow. "Right now, even?"

The answer "Obviously," was accompanied with a small huff and a nod.

With that, the stranger twisted around and gleefully waved at the camera. "HULLO!"

"She can't hear anythin', dumbass," deadpanned the Bostonian, earning another cluck of the tongue from the Texan. "What? Can't a guy tell a fact?"

"You were rude,"

"I'm _always_ rude, Tex'. What, ya gonna go all protective f' new kid just like dat?"

"Gphs…"

"He's new, at least be nice f'r th' first day."

"What, like da time Spy joined?"

"_Gphs…_"

The Engineer seemed emotionless, but only he could feel the raging contrast of morals inside, churning his stomach. "Yes."

A reluctant grumble rose from the youngest mercenary's throat. He ignored the pat on the back at the arsonist gave him and instead turned to face the stranger. "I ain't gonna apologize, but ya better get used to it, kid,"

"Technically speaking, I'm older than you," the newcomer stated, "but note taken."

"Good."

After several agonizing seconds of scorched silence, the Pyro looked at its three teammates, fidgeting awkwardly. "Ish evfrymph hgffy ngw?" it asked cautiously.

"Don't worry, Py'," the amiable Engineer assured the child-like arsonist. "Everyone'll will be happy soon, jus' not now."

Through the gasmask, the Whatever whined sadly, like a child being told that dessert only came after eating dinner's vegetables. However, it was not that child; it would be the child that burned all the evil veggies before they ripped out its tongue and shredded its stomach.

Which, to say the least, is pretty damn gruesome. So chew your vegetables well, kids.

Being the happy oblivious mercenary that it was—could've made a better Medic, attitude-wise, but its passion was for fire—the Pyro gave a joyful chirp and mumbled more gibberish through its mask, the lack of a clear voice made up with hand gestures and a bouncy tone as it suggested something.

The Texan smiled, contrasting with the Bostonian pissed off scowl. "That's one way to lighten th' mood, Ah guess it'll help us tomorrow." Turning to the newcomer, he asked, "You good with questions, yea?"

"Err, I think so," the Trainer responded, uncertainty coating his voice. "On battle tactics, right, Pyro?"

"Yfp,"

Turning to face Harlequin, he flicked his left wrist and held it up, level with his lips. For the first time since the arrival, the veteran mercenaries noticed a small, slim silver object of some sort hanging from a thin leather loop around his wrist; one end was narrowed with a one-sided curve, and the other had a strip of blue around the tip, lines of deep blue streaking it. The sound that came from it was quite an unexpected one to the mercs.

_Hsssss…_

However, it was not much of an irrelevant item concerning his job.

The smaller hound perked up and bounded back to its owner, leaving behind the chairs and the lingering scents it was investigating. There was a click as something was twisted, and with another quick hiss, it was sitting down.

Its owner looked up, more comfortable with both dogs nearby. "All right, shoot."

The Pyro clapped its hands, pleased, as the Scout just rolled his eyes. "Whht arh thg dfgs fhr?" it asked, curiosity slipping through the filters of the mask.

"Whiteface and Harlequin?" confirmed the stranger; he did not wait for an answer. "They were trained as war dogs since pups by yours truly—Whiteface is specialized as a mix of an attack and sentry dog, and Harlequin's more on search-and-retrieve."

He paused. "Actually, that's pretty damn weird; so far search dogs only find bombs, drugs and decapitated people. Harle' here fetches health kits and ammo boxes."

"So it's a mobile Dispenser?" the Scout questioned, somewhat skeptical, somewhat interested. He got a shake of the head as a response.

"Not really, he only delivers to me." The addressed hound had its fur ruffled and stroked back neatly as the newcomer spoke; its tail swished side to side and its tongue dangled from its jaws as it panted as always.

The Pyro made a sound of awe at the idea of having supplies brought to you, rather than running around for them around the area. It would still guard the Engineer's Sentry nest, of course, but still, sometimes an offensive approach was required—for both victory and amusement.

Then the curious questions went on, most of them answered with decent amounts of elaboration. The newcomer talked about how Whiteface would attack nearby enemies with its powerful jaws and titanium teeth implants, how Harlequin would find and retrieve the map-spawned pickups by carrying them back in its mouth, how he would defend himself and the dogs with Ye Olde shotgun and pistol (something the Engineer had mixed feelings about), how the stronger dog only listened to his commands, how the faster hound understood the Mann Co. note-of-choice dog whistle, and how the Administrator had more plans to experiment with. It certainly went much better and smoother than the Soldier's earlier interrogation this morning.

Speaking of time, clocks were not the type of ornament you would find everywhere in the barracks, but it just so happened that there was one in the mess hall.

Eleven o'clock. Wow, time sure slipped by on the Propulsion Gel Express. That's the orange goo for people who don't bother with the fourth syllable—like me.

By then, the Scout figured there was no point being scornful about the newcomer since it was the Administrator's idea. It was best to accept reality_, then_ see who stands where after the first day at work tomorrow.

A dog that would chase and attack, and one that retrieved supplies for their master…

There probably would not be much benefit for him other than the excuse for demanding for Dispensers even more.

Oh, bother.

They will just have to wait and find out, or rely on the Soldier's plans. As narrow-minded as he may seem, that patriot was neither a simpleton nor a moron; he was just… obsessed—no, passionate—for America, that was all. Okay, fine, I lied, there was more than America. First off, there was his Team, the BLUs, and he always wanted the best for them, even if that meant screaming at them, insulting them and downright trying to cripple them psychologically.

Not to forget the raccoon sanctuary back at Merasmus'. Cute lil' things, they were.

"Scout, boy, y' okay?" asked the Engineer, tipping over said person's block tower of thoughts.

The Bostonian shook some sense back into his head. "Yea, sorry, kinda spaced out f' a mo'." Pushing himself up, he started for the refrigerator of the mess hall and threw a quick glance over his shoulder. "Gonna refill on Bonk! before I faint."

When the stranger quirked a brow and glanced at the two remaining mercenaries for a logical reason, the Pyro giggled. "Blphd sfghr lhvmls,"

"Blood sugar le- really?"

The firebug looked at the Texan. The latter nodded. "Apparently,"

"I can hear you guys, y' know," the runner called. He had his back bent and head in the fridge. "Dammit, who moved it dis time?" Standing up properly—and taking precaution not to hit his head—the batter closed the door.

Cue squishy sucking sound when you open the same type of door.

A white chilled mist flowed down on the now-open freezer, vanishing before it could even pool at the Scout's feet. Said mercenary scowled and reached into the cold compartment.

"Screw you, Pyro," He redrew his arm and started his return, keeping his dominant arm raised and tensed.

The arsonist's muffled snicker was abruptly interrupted when a cold heavy can of frozen radioactive caffeine was hurled towards its head. Said body part was successfully knocked to an angle and stayed that way.

If you're gonna ask: No, it's not going to roll off.

Even by the time youngest mercenary re-joined the three, the firebug's head remained tilted and silent. Curious, the smaller German Shepherd prodded at it.

No reaction, how boring.

Upon seeing one of his hounds getting distracted, the handler hastily twisted his dog whistle with a click and signalled Harlequin to return with a curt hiss. It obediently returned.

Its owner looked at the unmoving Pyro and waved a hand. "Hullo?" Gaining no response or instruction to stop, he proceeded to poking at the firebug's head.

It ticked back into its proper position.

The arsonist's head, I mean.

"MMMMMPGH!" roared it, bringing its arms up as if to strike like an angry Kong King and causing the stranger to flinch back, startled. Bringing its arms down by several degrees, the Pyro's bellow mellowed down into a coo-like sound; it interlaced its fingers and stretched, before looking around with a bemused, "Mfph?"

The Engineer chuckled and waved a hand dismissingly. "Ah think ya kinda scared th' new boy, Pyro," With a relaxed sigh, he continued, this time at the newbie: "th' more you know, huh?"

"Know what?" The Trainer clumsily collected himself.

The Texan blinked from behind his goggles. Without facing away, he pointedly tilted the Pyro's head with a finger.

Stillness.

The Scout snorted when the stranger had finally registered and analysed the given situation, but instead of the expected "Eureka! Pyro's all herp-derp when you tilt its head!" all he gave was a confused "Well, that's a… gah what did those patches say?"

"Patches?" repeated the shortest man.

"View-flipping, honey-tongued, flattery-flaunting folks," explained the Trainer nonchalantly, apparently more focused on remembering specific words fit for describing the Pyro's strange feature. "They smooth things out with refund-demanding gillies."

The Scout blinked and looked up. "Weird, didn't sound like you paused with commas." He tilted the Pyro's head in the opposite direction.

For a split second, the masked abomination showed signs of life.

The Engineer poked it back to normal, much to the Bostonian's displeasure.

Like a person being electrified, the arsonist flailed wildly, batting another too near away. Unlike a person being electrified, it was still capable of yelling indignantly at its teammates. At the same time.

Okay, I give, I'm pretty people being shocked don't appear to be moving.

Let's, uh, let's change that simile a tad, huh? 'Like a fish out of water'- no, no, no. 'Like a hamster dance'.

No, that does fit either. Bah, forget it.

"WHPH WGHLD YPF DG THFT TN MPH?!" thundered the Pyro exasperatedly. It grabbed the laughing Scout by his lean shoulders and began shaking him as violently as it could—which to say is quite high on a scale of one to ten. Carrying a relatively heavy flamethrower everywhere during missions paid off nicely.

In the end, the Engineer—as the usual peacemaker of this small band of violent, merciless mercenaries—had to stop the firebug whilst the Trainer watched like the kid the teachers call the 'bystander when violence occurs'. Like, come on, who the Hell wants to stop a perfectly normal fight? And then the teacher walks in and starts scolding the students. He watched as the Texan coaxed and pried the arsonist off the youngest merc, murmuring apologies like you would if you accidentally hurt your pet, just without the 'LET ME LOVE YOU' part.

Anyway, the Scout was rattled, but conscious. He chuckled for a second, before groaning. The world spun slightly, but he was too distracted by the pounding of his head. Thank logic his brain was cushioned by blood. "Now we're even," he told the Pyro, reaching for his hat which had been thrown off by force. With much fragile gentleness of a loving mother, he dusted it off and wore it over his short ruffled brown hair, even taking a few extra seconds to fix it until he was satisfied.

The arsonist just huffed, folding its arms and looking away. One could almost imagine it pouting under that mask.

Upon hearing the sound of air forcefully passing through the filter, curiosity nudged the Trainer with an elbow, jerking its head towards the firebug when it successful caught the handler's attention before whispering into his ear. It smacked reluctance's hand away and snarled when the latter made contact, then returned to the newcomer.

Hesitation looked at reluctance and quickly helped it up. The two then proceeded to yank curiosity away, but to no avail.

"Hey Pyro," the Trainer started, a twinge of nervousness nipping at his voice, but he collected himself as excitement bumped hesitation and reluctance away with its belly.

The schizophrenic mercenary looked up, giving a brusque, bemused murmur, as if asking "Yea?"

"Do you miss fresh air, Pyro?"

From his place, the Scout's eyes widened, but whether it was from surprise or fear, one could not tell. He swiftly scooped up the forgotten can of frozen Bonk! and busied himself by struggling to open the can. If the newcomer screws up, so be it.

Then again, the Respawn was off, and as one of the Administrator's intended experiments for his first day…

Well, maybe he could distract the Pyro, or steal the axe, whichever. The latter certainly sounded more risky, but there was a better chance at survival afterwards.

Or he could always save the dogs, if what the stranger said was true.

A tap on the shoulder by the Engineer woke the Scout from his debating thoughts. His attention snapped to focus on the other mercenary, then at the Pyro.

Said mumbling monstrosity was silent, though not unmoving; it tilted its head a tad, an anticlimactic action with not a wisp of violence to catch scent of, much to the newbie's relief. The firebug stared at them for a heartbeat too long.

Before it did something that scared them.

A thickly gloved hand came up and tugged at the mask, making rubbery squeaks as it eased it off with caution. Fear gripped the other three, whispering for them to turn away before it was too late, but excitement held them back, tensed and anticipating.

Three pairs of grey-blue eyes were glued onto the fire-wielder, onto the hand's slow movement. The wait was killing them as they watched it lift up the mask. However, much to their disappointment, the mask stopped barely above its chin, showing no skin as it was tugged away from its face, rather than up. The Pyro seemed happy with it, though. Said mercenary took a slow, deep breath, savouring the taste of fresh air before a dry cough followed after, dragging along a sledgehammer. It fortunately died down promptly.

"Maybe."

The voice—soft, raspy and hoarse, clear enough to be coherent, yet not to indicate any gender or nationality at all—contrasted the loud, muffled bellows the veteran mercenaries were accustomed to, making them stare wide-eyed as the Pyro slipped its mask back on firmly. The arsonist paid no attention to the newcomer that was currently surveying through a simple piece of paper frantically.

The note was messily folded and shoved into a shirt pocket.

"Daaamn, Pyro," the Scout drawled, awestruck. "I thought dat Doc changed ya lungs last month."

The Engineer quickly jabbed the youngest adult with an elbow. "Shut yer trap," he hissed.

"Msh mmkpf," assured the Pyro, rubbing circles below its throat. "Mmdsh scsh tfgt-" It abruptly stopped.

Something was coming.

* * *

**A/N:** So school's back, so chapters (like this) might be coming in late. Now, for those people that love excuses: I live in Singapore, a tiny little island in South-east Asia. Recently we suffered a massive haze that went over the 'hazardous' level, and that proved some trouble. Then there's the lame title because I planned to focus on the Pyro in this chapter. I don't think it worked out. Oh well, at least I edited the time in this story.

Anyway, I had fun putting in some headcannons. Poor Pyro, it can tilt its own head but can't have others do it, an unnecessary piece, but what the Hell. Speaking of which, the Pyro will be an 'it' after I edited the story. Writing the character's attitudes sure was complicating, to some degree, since I had to consider why who reacted in what way to what who did. The references were more fun. Now you know how immature certain grown-ups can be.

(Meanwhile, as a young female, it's hard to think like an adult male. Apologies for inaccuracy.)

Credit to Pandas Are Still Bears RAWR for Pyro's mask part. She's now my beta, yay! Hope y'all check out her fics! :)

Coming up next:_ Say 'Chaaaaarge!' for the life of a merc; say 'Ho!' for the endless missions._

Pleasant days and peaceful nights.


	7. John Robinson

**Quick A/N:** Sorry for the really long wait, guys! I was really busy with real life, so have a whooping 8K+ worded chapter! Meanwhile:

**THANK YOU TO THE SITE AUTHORS OF FANFICTION NET FOR UPDATING THE CHARACTER LIST!**

(and small bit of credit for me because I emailed them about it- *shot*)

Now available are: Gray Mann, Olivia Mann, Redmond Mann, Blutarch Mann, and Scout's Ma. Now go update your story and have some fun.

**RTA:** To Guest and Attacus Atlas: Trust me, I'll continue this story till the very end and I hope you guys enjoy the trip with me! :)

Thanks to Pandas Are Still Bears RAWR for beta-reading.

* * *

_THUMP_

_THUD_

_THUMP_

_THUD_

The two dogs paced around, barking softly, uneasy. And that seemed to trigger something in their owner—he grew wide-eyed and rigid; a hand glided along to the side of his belt.

_THUMP_

_THUD_

_THUMP_

_THUD_

"Eh, dis ain't no frickin' suspense-horror story," spat the Scout, irritated, to no one in particular. Only a person like him would dare speak into such a disrespectful tone to the puppeteer of this world. However, the puppeteer was more interested on continuing the story.

The Bostonian scoffed.

"ATTEEEN**TION**!" The bellow tore through the air, but thunder beat it as it ripped and shredded by. The Soldier marched in, posture upright and alert as per usual. His right boot stomped against the tiles as he stopped and stood. "ALL RIGHT, YOU MERCENARY **MAGGOTS**, I KNOW YOU SORRY SCUMBAGS ARE TOO INDULGED IN YOUR SISSY TEA PARTY, BUT UNLIKE YOU,** I** SEEM TO BE THE ONLY ONE AMONGST ALL OF YOU THAT WANT TO SEE OUR NEW RECRUIT **FIGHT LIKE THE AMERICAN HE IS**!"

The patriot swiftly snagged the collar of the newcomer's shirt with a fist, pulling him up onto his feet and higher until he was dangling like a panicking marionette in his startled state. His blunt nails futilely dug and clawed at the stronger man's hand whilst he kicked out. Whiteface instantly began barking, loud and fierce, as it crouched and snarled menacingly.

That of which the Soldier failed to notice, and neither did he care to do so, as he turned on his heel and began stomping out, yelling at the top of his lungs for every single BLU mercenary to assemble at the training room as soon as possible.

If there was anything to know about the Soldier, it was that when he yells, he can yell,_ loudly_.

And he was not the man to disobey or anger—the Engineer, Scout and Pyro quickly followed behind, and the group almost looked like a disorganized marching band. Think Winnie the Pooh on the expedition for the North Pole.

Say 'Chaaaaarge!' for the life of a merc; say 'Ho!' for the endless missions.

However, it was certainly not fine day for marching; the rain continued to pound down like bullets, making obnoxious _plunks!_ on the roofs of the BLU barracks, a white background sound, like an engine's hum, occasionally torn apart by the roars and rumbles of thunder than trailed behind bright bolts of lightning that slashed from sky to earth with its white-hot claws.

The patriot remained undeterred as he made his way through the muddy, puddle-riddled training field, with the newcomer—who had given up struggling after realizing that it was not his fight to win—like a limp corpse in his grip.

The two German Shepherds ran after him, ignoring the storm and barking madly.

The Engineer watched them sympathetically, an unexplainable reaction his calculative mind did not bother analyzing and reasoning with. Unbothered by the rain as much as his teammates, he trudged on, goggles and helmet keeping the upper half of his face dry whilst cold rain soaked his clothes. The training room was not very far, thank goodness, but with the storm spells that randomly rocked the skies, it was not uncommon for the mercenaries to have to fight under bad weather, and that fact had toughened and steeled them. The Sniper was the best at adapting to different situations, nevertheless.

Speaking of him, the Engineer noticed the Australian from the corner of his vision, just as a sprinting Scout distracted him. The marksman was strolling behind casually, hands tucked into his pockets with an emotionless expression on his lean face. He had tilted his hat so that it shielded his face from the wind and rain, his sunglasses protecting his sharp grey eyes. Beside him was the Medic, his patience a thin string of silk as he grumbled to himself in German, taking off his round-rimmed glasses and tucking them in his pocket. A gloved hand was held palm down and flat above his eyes.

The training room got no less blurry as he neared it, despite the veil of rain thinning out between them.

The Heavy following behind the two Support Classes was quietly humming an old Russian folk song to himself, paying no attention to the weather. He would have stared straight ahead if not for the trailing tail of the Medic's lab coat dancing in the wind, a distracting, spasmodic movement.

All in all, the rain only caused the mercenaries to blink reflexively when any landed near or on their eyes.

The Soldier flung the doors open and threw on the lights, illuminating the training room—a large, spacious area with windows too high to peek out of, distant slits in the floor in front of a wooden booth of health and ammunition packs, and hoards of crates and barrels stacked upon one another. Hell, there was even a Payload bomb hanging from a crane hook near the back of the room.

That part of the room—that main part—was separated from a smaller section by wire fencing, of which the Team was gathered at. There were several dusty crates by the sides.

"WELCOME TO TARGET, PRIVATE!" the Soldier roared, grinning like a maniac as he flung the newcomer off; the latter staggered and stumbled, but found his footing promptly just as his two war dogs joined him around his combat boots. They growled at the Soldier, but did not approach.

The patriot failed to notice; he turned around to face the others, seemingly able to see with his eyes behind his helmet. "Where are the Cyclops and Suit?" he inquired, volume of voice dropping at the sight of most of the Team disorderly assembled before him.

"Present," a voice chimed, as if on cue. The Team looked back at the doors as the Frenchman appeared, twisting around and bringing his bent right arm down simultaneously. There was a sound of a sudden gush of wind, and he backed up, tapping a blue umbrella on the floor. Droplets of rainwater plunked off, creating a small deep grey puddle beneath.

The Spy met his teammates' puzzled stares with his cool, nonchalant gaze. "Quoi?"

The Medic hardly blinked, drying off his glasses. "Since vhen did ve haf Regenschirme?"

"Since I found sense in bringing one," the infiltrator curtly replied, "Badlands doesn't exactly possess zhe best of weazher."

"UMBRELLAS ARE FOR LADIES, MAGGOT!" the Soldier howled, rudely interrupting. "AND WHERE IS DEMOMAN?!"

The Spy remained indifferent despite the roar. Casting a glance back outside—and ignoring a retina-scarring flash of lightning in a distance—he wordlessly answered the burly American before retreating further into the room and away from any stray drops of rain. Looking down at his blue suit, the Frenchman dusted it off despite the lack of dirt. Then he saw distinctive muddy prints of dress shoes behind him amongst the combat boots and running shoes. He groaned in frustration.

The Soldier began blasting out orders again the moment the Demoman had joined: "ALL RIGHT, AMERICANS! MISSIONS START TOMORROW MORNING; THE TIME IS NOW ELEVEN TWENTY! I DON'T CARE WHETHER IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY OR YOUR PET TURTLE'S GIVING BIRTH, WE NEED THIS TIME TO PREPARE FOR TOMORROW WHEN WE SHOW THOSE REDS **WHO IS THE BOSS**! DO YOU HEAR ME, MAGGOTS?!"

"Oh great, not this again," the Sniper muttered, taking off his soaked hat to shake off as much rainwater as he could. He watched with disinterest as the Heavy walked to the side of the room, towards a dusty stack of chairs, and began separating them to place on the floor. The Demoman, strangely sober for once during ceasefire, went over to lend a hand.

"I SAID: **DO**, **YOU**, **HEAR**, **ME**, **MAGGOTS**?!"

The Medic innocently snapped his fingers, a sound audible enough to catch the others' attention over the white noise of rain hammering the roof. He rolled an index finger forward in circles, the silent words of "Let's finish this quick," displayed in the simple action.

With one voice of many souls, the BLU Team sucked in a deep breath to yell at the top of their lungs: "**SIR**, **YES SIR**!"

The Soldier sneered. "THANK YOU FOR WASTING PRECIOUS TIME, MAGGOTS!" He turned to face the newcomer. "ALL RIGHT! ENOUGH DILLY-DALLY! FETCH YOUR WEAPONS AND GET BACK HERE ASAP!"

"Sir, yes sir!" the Trainer responded, before dashing off to a blue door at the side of the room.

The Spy raised an eyebrow as he watched the stranger run past. "Since when did a novice know where zhe weapons were stored?"

"Map," the Engineer answered, sweeping the dust off his seat with a hand before sitting down. "S'convenient how th' weapon room ain't ever locked."

The Heavy chimed in: "Is pity we cannot bring real guns into barracks," he said, "could watch over Sascha properly."

"Now that is somethin' I concur with," the Sniper agreed, muttering. "Damn Solly fer getting' Demo involved fer his bloody Fourth of July celebration."

The Southerner chuckled good-naturedly. "Ah, can't be helped, Stretch,"

The marksman simply grumbled in reply. He shifted his focus onto the stranger who had equipped a shotgun and had a pistol tucked into a holster strapped around his right thigh. The guns looked new, he realised, nothing like the Scout's, or the Soldier's, or the Pyro's, or anyone's, at that. They were much cleaner and lacked any marks or scratches—better-looking than the ones the veteran mercenaries used, even though they always kept theirs in good shape to the best of their abilities, like a seasoned mother with a fragile new-born.

By then, the Soldier was waiting inside the combat section of the room, past the fencing.

"Gphd lshk!" cried the Pyro, fisting the air in encouragement.

Two seats left of the firebug, the Scout allowed himself to briefly chuckle in amusement. "One Reclaimed says dat da Admin didn't bother showin' him how ta shoot a gun."

"Zhat little?" the Spy asked as he took his seat on the far right, raising a brow.

"It's a small thing, ain't much to lose for," reasoned the younger merc. He slouched forward so that he could see his teammate properly as the others took their place—an orderly fashion in their Class numbers, one through nine, with the second seat empty.

The Frenchman waved a hand leisurely. "Very well, you can include me in your little bet," he informed, "I've searched his room long enough to know zhat I would win. Fortunately, zhe two dogs were absent when I checked back zhe second time."

"You're velcomed," the Medic commented offhandedly from his seat, separated from the infiltrator by the lanky marksman.

The Scout scrunched up his face slightly in some sense of aversion. "Why ah ya Supports always so creepy and clumped together? Like remember a couple'a years ago, when Snipes went all-"

"Shut," snapped said person, rather irritated. "An' it wasn't me, if yer fergot, it was the bloody RED."

"But you still acted weird," retorted the Bostonian pointedly.

The Australian grumbled, not bothering to reply.

On the other side of the training room, the Soldier was too busy yelling harshly at the new recruit to bother checking whether everyone had taken their respective seats—which, of course, they did.

"ALL RIGHT, MAGGOT, AS WE ALL KNOW STARTING TOMORROW MORNING THROUGH SATURDAY AFTERNOON WE WILL BE BOMBARDED WITH MISSIONS OF EVERY KIND KNOWN TO THE MANN CO. MERCENARIES, THAT MEANS YOU HAVE BETTER DONE YOUR READING, OR THAT MEANS DEATH FOR ANY ONE OF US! **YES**, YOUR PERFORMANCE** DOES** AND** WILL** AFFECT THE **EN**-**TI**-**RE TEAM**, DO YOU HEAR ME, MAGGOT?!"

"Sir, yes sir!" The Trainer's volume was but a cat's meow to the lion's roar.

"BULLSHIT, I CAN HEAR YOU, CORN DOG!"

"SIR, YES SIR!"

The Engineer allowed a hint of a smile to slip as reality locked bad memories in their room; he elbowed the doctor beside him. "Ya think his gonna get a sore throat, Doc?"

The German shrugged, the casual gesture still looking strangely professional. "Zhe Quick-Fix vill take care of it," he stated curtly. "Speaking of vhich, I've been trying to alter zhe Charge effect viz Herr Heavy's assistance. Vould you like to hear about it until zhe two dummkopfs in zhe shooting range start fighting?"

The Texan's eyes widened in sudden realisation and he pulled down his goggles as that they hung around his neck. "Darn, Ah nearly forget 'bout this—here," he pulled out a set of blueprints and handed them to his teammate eagerly.

"Vas ist das?" inquired the surgeon, now curious. He unrolled the presented item as the other explained:

"Blueprints of th' Teleporters Gray's Engineer bots used," He tapped one of the many sketches. "Got 'em before the clean-up happened, but Ah can't quite figure out how any robot tha' used the Teleporter got immunity f'r five full seconds. Ah thought maybe your ÜberCharge could contribute."

The Medic hummed, thinking. "Immunity, ja? Maybe ve could combine zhe healing attribute as vell, perhaps after zhis." suggested he. "You'll haf to spare me some time to clean up zhe infirmary, zhough, I'm afraid zhat zhe doves vould fall sick."

"Sure thing, partner,"

The first gunshot rang, splitting through the air and dawning realisation on the majority of the mercenaries that finally the yelling had ceased and the training had begun. The Team grew quiet, watching with variable levels of eagerness and how clearly they showed it.

"MY GRANDMA CAN SHOOT BETTER THAN YOU—IN! HER! **GRAVE**!" flayed the Soldier, despite having little to no memory of said family member. He sneered when the newbie staggered back a tad due to the recoil of his shotgun, but quickly regained his footing a second later.

Medium range: primary. Long range: secondary.

At least he was quick to switch to the right weapons. His grip on the firearms was tight and strained, the Heavy noticed. He frowned. Maybe he would go and chat with the stranger later, talk to him and properly welcome him. Then find out why he seemed so tense.

"Lighten grip! Gun is not going to hurt you, leetle man!" he bellowed his advice. "Gun is part of you, is extension, not untameable killing beast!"

The Trainer did not bother looking back, focusing on the wooden targets—with REDs painted on them—instead. He even ignored the Soldier yelling into his ear. However, he did a swift gesture of a thumb's up in acknowledgement, and the words rephrased themselves in his head as an old memory he had misplace was discovered again.

Firm hold, not a taut one; lean into it if it kicks, but do not press it against you—press into it.

The shotgun was quickly replaced with his pistol just as a target further back popped up. Shots were rapidly fired. He wordlessly thanked his previous occupation's training for instilling the skills of good concentration and quick reflexes in him. He would have gotten mauled by the tigers if the roar of the crowd distracted him, fortunately all he had to endure were one too many bites and claws.

He still hated that blasted elephant, though. Stubborn as Hell, it was.

The ex-circus performer's thoughts and robotic concentration was suddenly ripped to shreds when a target appeared right in front of him. He flinched back, the unexpected burst of adrenaline forcing him to immediately snatch the weapon from his belt to slash the wooden figure. A rod, about three feet in length, made violent contact with its victim, the hook on the end tearing at the wood. It looked like a fire iron with a blue handle, though larger with a sharper, longer hook.

The patriot hummed, somewhat impressed, when the target was destroyed in two strong blows. He was about to praise the stranger when he saw the look in the other's grey eyes.

They were wide and wild, filled with blind panic like a startled, trapped animal. Yet, between the choices of fight or flight, the newbie automatically chose to fight. To fight out of terror, the Soldier registered, rather than to fight for the love of it.

Hopefully the first mission would change that.

"Private," said the older man, only continuing once he had caught the Trainer's attention; "every single Class here has unique types of weapons. Explain yours."

The leaner merc blinked at the change from shooting to talking—it was not exactly surprising how the Soldier chose to shoot first and ask questions later, nevertheless—but he wasted no time. "Sir, the Administrator told me that I was to use bullhooks as my melee weapon, sir."

"Continue."

The growing conversation seemed to have calmed him down, the rush of adrenaline slowly slipping away like a child abandoning an old toy. "Sir, she granted me permission to choose something I was familiar with so that I could keep up with the other mercenaries, sir." He idly twirled his weapon with dexterous expertise, subconsciously proving his point. His tensed stance was moderately relaxing.

"I was never really one to waste time and watch the circus," commented the patriot. "Tell me about your weapon."

"Sir, elephant trainers used them to guide the bulls. Also, it's quite handy how it can be lethal with its hook, sir." Just a second later, the Trainer's expression's changed into what looked like defensive shock. "Of course, we only use the hooks to tug the bulls along."

From behind, a yell sounded: "Solly! Ye forgot aboot Taunting!"

"DON'T YOU GO ORDERING **ME** AROUND UNLESS YOU'VE GOT FOUR STARS ON YOUR SHOULDER, CYCLOPS!" The Soldier stomped a foot, a fist raised up and his covered gaze directed in the general direction of the Scotsman. He seemed to have indirectly admitted some sense of defeat when he focused back on the stranger. "I HOPE THAT YOUR SORRY PETS TAUGHT YOU HOW TO TAUNT, MAGGOT!"

Taunt—a remark or action deliberately performed in order to provoke someone else, similar to the vocal act of jeering.

The Trainer cast a glance at his dogs, both of which that had sat obediently by the side, undisturbed by the earlier gunshots. The hounds could not Taunt, as far as he knew—he had been their Trainer for the past four to five years since they were pups, and still was. Taunts were like tricks, he figured, they had to be trained to Taunt.

Still, would it really matter whether the dogs could howl on command over a dead, unmoving corpse?

Maybe the answer would appear by itself another day.

"ARE YOU LISTENING, MAGGOT?" The startling bellow brought back reality with it, much to the distracted mercenary's disappointment, but he did not jump nor flinch.

"Sir, yes sir," With that, the Trainer's mind allowed itself two full seconds to think of a Taunt on autopilot. What followed was not exactly what he had expected, but he maintained his posture in hopes of making it look intentional—like what the ringmaster once said to all the performers once: Even if you trip right in front of the crowd and they start laughing at your clumsiness, get right back up and pull a stunt. Look like you meant for it. Flip your hair, do a somersault, just give them a show without any tinge of disappointment.

The handler stepped back with his right leg, the ankus in his grasp subjected to being twirled twice with expertise. It was later held by both hands as he reared back, the upper half of his body twisting.

Then he snapped like a mousetrap.

The wooden target right in front of the booth was as timely as ever, meeting an unfortunate fate as the sharp hook of the ankus tore into it. The bullhook was twisted and violently shredded away, leaving broken pieces of wood to clatter on the floor.

All right, definitely not according to plan. The newcomer inwardly winced.

Wait, these were paid killers; violence was accepted here.

'_Gah bugger,_' the stranger inwardly groaned, '_what did those notes say?_' Before he could smack his head with the heel of his palm, realisation had finally struck him that the BLU Team was satisfied—with a few approving but others neutral—of his display.

He made a mental note to adjust to noise levels. The circus was always so full of music and the cheers of the crowd. Heh, he still remembered the tune of Stars and Stripes Forever. Oh, the looks on those windjammers faces-

A heavy palm smacking his back painfully woke him up from his thoughts. Stumbling forward with a cough, the Trainer quickly caught himself.

The Soldier paid no attention; he was far too busy bellowing with laughter. "THAT'S WHAT I WANT TO SEE ON THE BATTLEFIELD TOMORROW, YOU HEAR, ROOKIE?"

"Sir, yes sir!" Encouraged by the twinge of approval, a corner of the newbie's lips was tugged up into a lopsided grin.

"BUT ALL BORING BASICS ASIDE, WE ALL KNOW ABOUT THE SHOTGUNS AND PISTOLS AND MELEES! IT'S TIME FOR THOSE NAZIS DOGS OF YOURS TO PROVE THEMSELVES!"

"Finally, somethin' different," commented the Scout, who earned a small chuckle from the Pyro two seats away.

At the opposite end of the row of blue chairs, the Spy watched with piqued interest as the two large dogs padded into position with several commands and hisses of the dog whistle, but his sharp, masked features betrayed nothing. He had memorized ever available note, report and document he had found in the stranger's room—the second time he slipped into the room, actually; the first time he was jumped by the two insane hounds. That was one of the few reasons why he hated not knowing information beforehand. Curse the Administrator.

"C'mon, Whiteface. Let's show the BLUs what you've learned for the past few years."

The Frenchman mentally mused to himself upon the newcomer's words. So the papers in the room were true. Perhaps he would pay the Headquarters an unannounced visit, slip in, pick the lock, memorize, and escape unnoticed. Gathering information was part of his occupation, even if that meant breaking and entering, and if it turns out useless or unneeded in the end—well, hey!—he could always use it for blackmail.

Curiosity killed the stupid cat; the Spy was a sly, intelligent feline of stealth.

Curiosity was just a side-effect that he had twisted into an advantage since young.

Nevertheless, the Frenchman watched the hounds with an observant eye—second to the Sniper's, if he were to ever be forced to admit what he disliked about himself—as the stronger dog bounded and leaped around the shooting range, swift and quick. With every command of "Attack!", "Get him!" and "Go!" the hound lunged to whichever wooden target was closest to his owner, who stood in the middle of the area, unless ordered otherwise with a pointing finger. Its fangs dug into the wood and tore it apart with a violent shake of the head. Even when its owner was not directing it, it paced around the pace, the Spy noted. He cast a side-glance at the Sniper beside him, who seemed far too absorbed in making observations too to notice.

Imbecile; how can he check his surroundings every so often in the battlefield, yet remain as unmoving as a rock at the base? What, was here a safe haven?

If the Australian were paying attention, he would have denied and simply stated that he was plotting out a plan to kill their new Class. He had plans from A to Z on how to permanently terminate anyone and everyone, even the Administrator, but of course he would never admit that. Better safe than sorry.

Headshots… they would definitely be hard to plant on the bulkier dog, but if its owner stayed at one spot like he was currently doing…

The Sniper shrugged it off inwardly. This was about the dogs for now. Without them, the new merc was as weak as an Engineer away from his Sentry Nest.

"Sir, permission to speak, sir!" the Trainer requested. He looked down at the larger canine. "Heel, Whiteface,"

"Granted!"

"Sir, could I demonstrate the dogs' abilities without the use of wooden targets, sir? They weren't trained to fight flat objects, sir."

"ARE YOU QUESTIONING MY TRAINING METHODS, DOGFACE?!"

"Sir, no sir! It's just that the dogs were trained rip at flesh, sir!" The Trainer's voice was strained, but not hoarse.

The Soldier blinked under his helmet upon hearing the choice of words. A grumble rose from the back of his throat as he debated. With a sharp turn of the head that sent his helmet spinning slightly, he looked at the general direction of the Medic, an unspoken approval and indication.

The doctor sighed and got up. He headed for the weapon storage room. "I'll get zhe Medi-Gun."

The stranger grinned and, after entering the spectator zone of the large room, hastily followed the German. Throwing a glancing over his shoulder, he called: "I'm gonna need a volunteer for the next act! Someone sturdy and fast!"

To judge whether the neatness and cleanliness of the weapon storage was normal was similar to wondering whether licking wounds was actually good—it can both promote healing, yet might infect the injury with bacteria that were designed to dissolve and digest, but enough about saliva. The once spacious room of pale blue walls was divided into ten sections a long, long time ago by invisible lines for the sake of symmetry, with five on each side. In each section, you could find all the weapons used by a specific Class separated according to what slot they took up. Each and every weapon was clean and well-maintained, albeit with a few minor markings like scratches and slight dents from their service of over five years.

The Medic raised a brow as he walked over to the right part of the storage; three sections away, the once empty, dusty place was suddenly so clean. Granted, it was currently void of weapons since the newcomer had taken them out—so far, the German counted a shotgun, pistol and bullhook—but it still felt off. He watched as the Trainer walked over and ducked to search the lower shelves, at something obscured from the Medic's sight.

"So, vhen do you zhink zhe Administrator vill grant you new veapons?" he asked offhandedly as he slung his Medi-pack over his shoulders.

The Trainer did not look up. "Don't know," he answered, words almost a grunt due to his crouched position. He pulled out a thick funnel-like object of a pale shade of blue. There was a joint connecting two-thirds of the piece with the last section. "You'd think a long-planned experimental Class would have more, huh?" he chuckled as he stood upright. Then he turned to face the Medic. "I'm good, you ready?"

The doctor, who had switched on the Medi-Gun, directed the nozzle of said Secondary at the other. The lever moved smoothly when he pushed it forward, and a stream of cyan flowed towards his current healing target. A small smile of satisfaction danced upon the German's lips; good, the ÜberCharge heart implant was not faulty after all.

The Trainer shivered like a dog shaking water from its wet fur. Forget the Overheal; the cool sensation of the healing beam itself was foreign—albeit not new—to the newcomer, like drinking cold water after exercising. The only difference being the numbing chill spread through his entire body from the heart, rather than linger in his lungs. He chortled as he swiped at the translucent blue crosses that bubbled upwards with his free hand. "Holy Hell, I hope the RED Trainer's dealing worse than me."

"Pray zhat he is," the Medic said indifferently as they began exiting the storage, before heading to the shooting range.

The Trainer looked back at the other BLUs just as he entered the gate, resulting in him jogging backwards. "All right!" He waved the sleeve-like item. "Any volunteers?"

"Mph!" The Pyro leaped from its seat cheerfully, like a child about to be given a cookie. It quickly joined the three in front, and the healing beam joined with it like a reverse leech.

Oh wait, that sounded nasty. Cut that one out.

The newcomer chuckled softly. "Let me guess: Scout's too weak and Demo's too slow?" He gestured for the firebug to raise an arm. "Less-dominate arm, please,"

"HEY!"

Ignoring the cry of indignation from the fellow runner of the BLU Team, the Pyro simply nodded in confirmation and held up its left arm. "Mm-phm." From behind its mask, it watched with curious interest as the sleeve was pulled on and strapped on. It was somewhat heavy and movement-restricting, though not uncomfortable.

The Trainer double-checked the sleeve, securing it firmly. "All righty," He looked at the other BLUs; some were murmuring amongst themselves. "This thing"—he held up the Pyro's arm—"is called a bite sleeve, used for dog training when it comes to attacking. Now Py', I need you to hold it between you and Whiteface at all times because friendly-fire exists for the sleeve." Satisfied, the newcomer stood back. "But we don't want you dislocating your arm, either, so keep it locked and rigid."

The Pyro nodded in response.

"Nearing a full charge," informed the Medic, checking a meter on his Medi-Gun.

"Good, good," The Trainer flicked a hand at the firebug. "Now, Py', I'm gonna have to ask you to follow my instructions, all right?"

The firebug nodded gleefully, before it was told to stand about four metres away. Through the dark lens of its gasmask, all it saw was the usual cheery rainbows sprawled along the walls of the candy-and-cake building. The fierce-looking German Shepherd was but a round, button-eyed plush toy with a cute little pink tongue dangling from its snout. Even the bite sleeve looked like a cyan log cake of rainbow sprinkles and gumdrops.

"All right, so I'm going to have Whiteface here perform a full series of combat tricks." the Trainer began, mainly directed to the Soldier. "Wait, chase, attack, return." he listed, looking down at the stronger hound. "All right, buddy, you ready? Wanna play?" Upon receiving several fierce, feral growls and barks in return, he scooped up Whiteface's forgotten leash and tugged back, almost mocking the over enthusiastic animal as it struggled to maul the Pyro. "Wait for it, White, wait for it…"

He pointed at the Pyro, instantly loosening his grasp on the leash. "Get 'im!"

And then the puppy plushie pranced towards the Pyro in a cheery march, even doing a little twirl on its hindpaws with the grace of a helium-filled balloon. It floated over to the firebug and clamped its tiny, bumpy teeth onto the log cake sleeve. It gnawed and chewed the sleeve like it were a rubber chew toy. Its fluffy swishing tail tickled the Pyro's arm despite the asbestos suit, resulting in a struggle to maintain still from the Whatever.

The BLUs watched as the large canine ruthlessly ripped at the bite sleeve, the fabric surprisingly still in one unharmed piece as Whiteface tore at it with all its doggy might. Using its momentum to its advantage, the hound swung itself and shook its head feverishly. The growls that slipped past its fangs were fierce as a bear's, and some of the mercenaries began wondering whether or not that was just for show.

The Trainer smiled with parental pride and satisfaction. Next trick, coming right up: "Keep at it, White!"

The dog did as it was told, sinking its fang into the bite sleeve as deeply as it could. It continued its assault uncaringly as its owner vaguely explained what the command meant: "Actually if you just tell him to chase down someone, he'll just bite and run. Though admittedly, encouraging him to continue attacking would risk both our lives since I have to pay attention to his situation as well as my own."

The Soldier curtly nodded, silently formulating a strategically battle tactic for the upcoming fight.

"Whiteface, get back here!" the newcomer ordered, left hand swishing with a quick gesture, but the larger dog had already released the Pyro and retreated upon hearing the single word of 'back'. Sneaking a glance over his shoulder, the Trainer inwardly sighed in relief; they did not notice.

The murmuring was back.

"ALL RIGHT, MAGGOT!" the Soldier's sudden words sliced through the split-second of idleness. He pointed to the stranger with his usual judging scowl. "THE MOST VICIOUSLY DANGEROUS CHAOS-ERUPTING CALCULATING FACTORY-FORMULATED MILK-POWDER OF AMERICAN'S DEALIEST WAR PLAN IS IN MY VERY HELMETED HEAD AS WE SPEAK!

"PYRO, GRAB YOUR GEAR AND GET BACK HERE!"

"Hur, ysh hur!" It dashed off hurriedly, scrambling slightly for a moment before adjusting to its unbalanced weight.

The Soldier was given several looks, ranging in different degrees of bemusement, curiosity and skepticism, but the burly patriot paid no heed. He turned to the newbie. "AND YOU! HAVE YOUR NAZI DOG WAITING FOR THE KILL AGAIN!"

The stranger blinked, but complied. "Sir, yes sir!" He whirled around to face the stronger hound. "Whiteface, hold!"

While the canine dropped into a predatory crouch, the Pyro jogged back, hefting its trusty flamethrower along. It paused, confused, when it realised that the dog was not singing and dancing like before, but instead was humming and bobbing its head to the same tune.

"PYRO, BEHIND THE NAZI PUPPY!"

"Yo, Solly! At least explain da Hell's ya plan! Sittin' here ain't exactly da best place to know what's actually goin' on!"

"Shut up and sit down, boyo,"

"God, I hate Spectate Mode." A metallic screech sounded as sudden weight fell upon it.

"Just shut up."

The Soldier looked up at his six other teammates and sneered. "WATCH AND LEARN, BACON LEGS!"

Chuckles, sniggers, snickers and sneers from the BLUs—even the good-natured Engineer—were hissed out like steam from a teapot, bubbling agitation in the youngest mercenary.

The Scout raised a fist threateningly. "Hey! Screw off!"

The Trainer blinked. "Bacon legs?"

"If only you arrived years ago," the Medic told him, his naturally cruel laughter dying with a content sigh. "Scout's legs vere flipping about like vhat Herr Engineer compares to bacon."

"That was a good day," the Southerner sighed, his head tilting to the side and up in a dreamy emphasis as he mentally wallowed through nostalgic memories like it was a gallery of his grandfather's inventions. He sighed again, much to the Bostonian's growing irritation.

"I said screw off!" he spat, scowling, but no advancement of violence was made.

The newcomer blinked, before leaning towards the Pyro nearby, hissing out a low whisper. "Does he normally disrespect elders like that?"

The masked monstrosity shrugged, hands raised in emphasis. "Nfrmghy, bjt thft dfmshn mgkh mt nfrmgh."

"It doesn't make it normal? And you guys don't tell him off at all?"

"Nph,"

"Huh,"

The one-sided verbal fight behind the fencing continued.

With knitted brows and his mouth a thin, slanted line, the uncertain stranger questioned once more: "How old is Scout again?"

The firebug paused for a moment, head tilted as it mentally counted in its head. "Twghnty-nfjn."

"Twenty-nine? Huh, doesn't look like it," commented the other.

The Pyro nodded indifferently. "Thjy nfvhr dgd chkngh,"

"Never changed? At all?"

"Nfvhr."

The two looked back at the commotion the runner was causing. At the side, the Medic had ceased his laughter, but was still watching with amusement, while the Soldier grumbled under his breath.

"So I friggin' glitched back then, so what?"

"R.I.P Crazy Legs, may you grace the winds of our Lord's heavenly wind tunnels with the elegance of raw bacon strips for eternity in the sanctuary of Eden. Amen." The Engineer took off and raised his helmet as if it were a glass of wine. A playfully cruel smile on his face betrayed his solemn air.

Four other hats, a lit cigarette and a bottle of Scrumpy were all lifted at once just as seven voices spoke as one: "Amen."

That seemed to have taken care of the situation; the young lean man growled and gestured rudely with his middle finger, before flumping down onto his seat, determined to remain silent for the rest of the chapter.

"Uh, permission to speak, sir?" the Trainer looked over to the patriot, curious confusion still written on his face.

The older man huffed, but not from annoyance. "Granted, but I want you and mumbling 'Merica here to get back in position!"

"MURRYKH!" The Pyro raised its hefty flamethrower as it cheered.

The handler went along with it. "Sir, considering the fact that your leader-like attitude is noted by the boss, and that several precious minutes were unnecessarily wasted earlier—Whiteface, stop being so frisky and wait, dammit!" Once the bored, restless German Shepherd was settled down into a tense, predatory crouch again, its owner continued: "Why didn't just tell Scout to keep quiet, sir?"

The Soldier chortled and shook his helmeted head. "There's one thing about our string bean that you should know: He's a loudmouth and will always be unless he's yelled at by a WOMAN!"

The Scout harrumphed.

"Like Miss Pauling?" the newbie inquired.

"WHO'S ASKING THE QUESTIONS, MAGGOT?!"

His lean body sway softly as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Well, actually, I am; you gave me permission, sir."

"WELL THAT WAS ONLY FOR ONE QUESTION, THEN!" Reverting back to his stern, stoic and fierce manner, the Soldier was nothing but determine to get the training session back on track as soon as possible. His near-growl orders were barked, curt and blunt and demanding, but clear as the fact that it was still raining outside.

Thunder continued dancing a jig as bullets of rain tap-danced on the ceiling. Crazy thunder. And that's why you shouldn't evaporate alcohol, you wacky 'evaporation rate comparison of water, oil and alcohol' people.

"ALL RIGHT, MAGGOTS!" the burly American hollered, "THIS KILLER PLAN WILL REQUIRE PRECISE TIMING AND COOPERATION! WE'VE BEEN A TEAM FOR OVER FIVE YEARS, YOU SORRY SONS OF A GUN BETTER LIVE UP TO MY EXPECTATIONS! THOSE NAZIS SURE DIDN'T, SO THOSE TWO POOCHOS BETTER BE MADE IN AMERICA!

"AT MY SIGNAL, I WANT PYRO TO AIRBLAST AND WHATEVER THE NEW CLASS IS CALLED TO SEND HIS PET PUP ATTACKING!"

The Spy leaned back in his seat, gently blowing out a billow of smoke. "Zhis is becoming interesting," he mused. Knowing the Soldier, the idea would probably be as crazy and successful as setting the arrows of the Sniper's Huntsman alit.

They never really obeyed the laws of physic, anyway. That would be a stupid restriction—one could perform a Rocket Jump here, skip the stairs and still not risk blowing off their legs.

"THREE!"

The Pyro adjusted its hold on its flamethrower for one last time, fingers readily lying on the airblast trigger.

"TWO!"

The newcomer blinked. "Wait, what're we attacking again-"

"ONE!"

With little to no time to contemplate over who or what was the intended target, the timing of the trick was off by a second, but a second's wait was all that it needed. The familiar breathy huff of an airblast sounded just as a command of "Attack!" was given. The rush of pressurized air accelerated the stronger hound's speed as it bolted towards… well, nowhere in apparent, nearly tripping over its own paws. Despite the abrupt split-second stumble, the dog did not yelp, instead quickly recovering.

Harlequin watched with childish interest by the side, tail swishing contently as it watched its senior leaped forward like the latter were some superhero dog. It got up onto its four paws and began padding around, getting restless the longer it waited for orders.

Noticing this, its owner brought the dog whistle to his lips whilst switching the command note with his middle finger. The leaner canine's ears perked up excitedly, before it began sniffing the air and floor around it, bounding forward hurriedly.

"Is ballerina impression over?" ask the Heavy, the amusement in his gruff voice giving away his neutral expression. "Leetle puppy should learn how to shoot gun. Better for war."

Beside the Pyro, Medic hummed with an odd glint in his eyes.

Harlequin leaped back with a medium-sized ammunition box in its jaws. It looked up at the Trainer expectantly. "Well, they don't really have opposable thumbs," its owner pointed out, taking the box. He passed it to the Pyro. "Here,"

"Thfksh," the firebug murmured, accepting the box happily.

The Soldier was muttering to himself in the background, shaking his head and grumbling and huffing. "ALL RIGHT!" he began. "SO MAYBE THAT DIDN'T GO WELL, BUT AMERICANS ALWAYS SUCCEED BECAUSE THEY DO THEIR BLOODY BEST! THAT'S HOW COLUMBUS FOUND AMERICA!"

"Wosn't th' poor man searchin' fer India?" the Demoman questioned. The Engineer shushed him.

Thankfully the Soldier had not heard it; he was too occupied with watching the younger hound, shifted his half-obstructed gaze onto the Pyro, then back to the animal. Not much of a fighter, he figured, judging by the dog's lean frame.

"**YOU**! NEW RECRUIT! EXPLAIN TO THE TEAM WHAT THE OTHER PUPPY PRINCESS IS FOR!"

"He's actually more of a puppy pixie, but sir, yes sir!" Scooping up the smaller canine with a grunting huff and ignoring its mid-air-kicking paws, the newbie continued: "Harlequin here is trained to search for and retrieve certain items on command, mainly ammo boxes and health kits—not really meant to fight. He's got weird brains that we're still trying to perfect, especially when it comes to distraction. Sooner or later, he'll probably learn to fetch for all of us, depending on the boss."

The Spy's voice was heard. "And one week is enough time? You do recall zhe fact zhat you're not an official Class, let alone a permanent resident of zhe BLU Barracks, yes?"

"Six days, actually, excluding Sunday's ceasefire." added the Medic. His Medi-Gun audibly clicked, popped and snapped like bubble wrap on a mousetrap.

The smaller German Shepherd was released. Its clawed paws noisily scratched the floor beneath it, rapid at first for balance and better purchase, before slowing down dramatically as it wandered off to the side, seemingly looking for something interesting to occupy itself.

"Aaand I think that's about all that concludes the skills of a Trainer. Well, at least, until the boss says otherwise. It'd be better out in the field tomorrow, with proper bleeding targets." Upon noticing how long the German had been standing at the side with a full Charge, the newcomer grimaced slightly. "Do you want to try out the ÜberCharge?" he suggested, a nervous grin creeping up his face.

"MAGGOT! YOU DO NOT SPEAK UNLESS SPOKE TO!"

"Oh be quiet, Herr Soldier," The patient German hardly blinked as he took a step forward, Medi-Gun still cackling with bluish sparks of energy—electricity, he had claimed—when he trained the healing device on the other. His smile was a strange mixture of sickly sweetness and morbidity. "I'm certainly curious over whezher somezhing explodes zhis time."

The Trainer stared at the doctor for a moment in disturbed bewilderment, an eye twitching just the slightest, before he nervously chuckled. "Don't jinx it, haven't got any elephant tail hair on me."

The older man just laughed briefly, whether from amusement or disbelief the BLUs could not tell.

Taking a moment to debate on whether or not a combat demonstration was required for an experimental display of success invulnerability whilst not exploding, the newcomer decided against the idea and gave a curt nod. "Hit it,"

Four bodies lit up all at once. A surge of energy spurred up within the newbie, the split-second deafening cackle of electricity so short and sudden that it left no trace or evidence of existing in the first place, but the pain did. The agony, so sharp and biting and burning, wrecked his body from the heart outwards and forcing him to reflexively convulse.

A sudden animalistic yelp echoed through the room, and through the pain he was unaccustomed to, the Trainer forced himself to locate the source, only to see Harlequin bolting straight past him, the forgotten canine's coat glowing bright blue with a strange fluid-like appearance. It was yelping and barking, startled and frantic and bewildered all in one as it bound around and across the room.

"Harle!" It owner ran after it, stumbling over his own feet and wincing at the sharp sensation with each movement. He pushed it aside. "Whiteface, fetch!"

With those words, the mercenaries of Builders League United watched as a small tornado of chaos broke free from its bubble cage: The weaker dog scampered in blind panic with the speed of the Scout, turning sharply at random and unknowingly slipping from the reach of its two pursuers, who both were notably slower. The new recruit scrambled to get his dog whistle in the right note, but the pins and needles shooting through his arms—forget that, his entire frame—sadistically wrecked his control.

The Medic immediately switched off his Medi-Gun, glowing yellow eyes wide. A more humane part of him regretted the fact that he had forgotten about the ironic pain of the Charge, but a louder sadistic voice was too busy sniggering cruelly.

It doubled over in laughter, tears streaming down its cheeks when it saw the Pyro join the wild goose chase. The familiar yet oh-so-alien sense of inhuman strength seeped away as the ÜberCharge faded.

The blue glow of the three flickered wildly, before dying off along with the pain and finally allowing the Trainer to correct his whistle's note. The hiss was nearly pure silence to the Team, but the smaller dog it loud and clear. In an instant, its paws skidded on the concrete and it collided right into its owner with a leap, throwing the latter back against the floor painfully despite its lean form. The handler hugged his assist dog tightly, his frantic chanting of rushed, half-mangled words of comfort ironically lacking any tinge of assurance. He pushed himself up to hunch over his helper dog.

The Pyro screeched to a stop behind the stranger, oblivious to the war dog bumping into its legs with a startled yip. "Ypf mkgy?"

At first, silence. Then came a low, wheezing reply:

"…_No_."

Confused, the firebug walked around to face its new teammate from the front.

Then it saw something that made Mr. Balloonicorn faint.

Fear. Absolute sheer fear.

The masked monster did not even need to empathize with the new recruit; it did not need to feel the epinephrine pounding through its body, the tensed muscles, ready to flee at any given moment, the quickening of breath, or the screaming thoughts of utter dread and anxiety that nowhere was safe, not safe at all. It could feel no sudden, icy steel grip wrenching its heart away, or see the world in a blurred, hazy manner while feeling as though a heavy pebble had dropped and failed to settle in its stomach.

But those dilated wide grey eyes said it all, pooling and brimming with only one sole survival emotion, and yet, no tears at all.

A shaky tremble overwhelmed the new mercenary's lean frame. Laughter. He was laughing hysterically. The soft chuckles turned into chortles, the chortles into howls. His throat was tight, he could not breathe, but it did not matter. He kept laughing.

Tears began streaking down his cheeks. His eyes remained wide open, unblinking.

Then his attention snapped up to the Pyro. Three simple, panic-laced words were choked out:

"…_I'm gonna die_."

Granting the BLUs little to no time to react properly, the Trainer flung himself onto his feet and towards the door, harshly shoving the Medic out of his way and throwing the unlocked fence door open with surprising adrenaline-spiked strength. Metal slammed against metal, painfully loud, and the two unsure war dogs bolted after their owner, panicked and hot on his heels.

The Pyro was frantically trying to revive Mr. Balloonicorn, the Soldier was screaming insults about cowardice, the Heavy had left his seat and was helping the Medic up.

And the rain-blurred silhouettes of the three new additions vanished just as lightning struck the building.

* * *

**A/N:** Well, looks like we have one character left to socialise with. I honestly don't think this chapter's any good. It's w_aaay_ too long for comfort, in my opinion, and I didn't want to bore anyone, but since my chapters are planned, things must go according to plan (unless said chapter's too short).

Please note that the speed of the German Shepherds were based more on the speed of the Classes in-game and not real life because I didn't want them getting too much of an upper paw. I've read up that German Shepherds can reach the speeds of 25 to 30 mph, and that's like a Pyro or Spy running double-time (200%), faster than your Scout with a full Baby Face's Blaster _and_ Crit-a-Cola speed boost. Apparently, according to the Team Fortress Wiki, the Scout runs at 17 mph without effects, and that's about 27.4 (corrected three significant figures) kilometres per hour. The point is that he runs at that rate for_ the entire day_ nearly non-stop. At his top, he's only at 22.2 miles/35.7 kilometres per hour!

Then again, this _is_ the TF2niverse.

And he probably has endurance training-

**BANG!**

* * *

Da Spy stole ya rifle, Snipes, not me, now screw off! I'm tryin' ta bend the narration here! Well of course you doan understand any crap I say 'bout context and perspective, dumbass. Go read a book sometime.

Great, he's gone. All right, bros and broads, so since da real puppeteer's dealin' with a headache and prob'ly serious brain damage, I'll be in-charge of da outro. Seems like whadevah's up next would have somethin' ta do with not fearing death.

Gah, she even has her own catchphrase of an outro. Screw dis script.

Have a nice friggin' day, and deah ain't no monster in da closet or under ya bed, either, just some wailin' cousin of mine. Hell, make that several.

I'll ah, I'll go hide in dat box below. If I ain't deah, dat means I finally figured out how ta escape dis blank canvas.


	8. Rokker the Jib

**RTA:** I'm going to start naming all these awesome anonymous people because calling them all 'Guest' doesn't seem very special, you guys need to be one in a million!

To Guest that reviewed Chapter 7 (Banjo Light), for now I shall refer to you as "A Guest of Wind" (unless I recognise your style in reviewing again). I never really thought anyone would like my writing style, so thank you. Well, I guess I could try increasing the word count for chapter (excluding Author's Notes) to say... maybe 5k-7k or so? Depending on the planned content. I have to agree with you that the Pyro is prone to being ignored, despite its interesting personality and view of the world. That's why I try to feature every character in the orientation (helps with interactions—or lack thereof—too). Perhaps the muffled speech deters writers; I myself fear that the Pyro's words might be too confusing or inconvenient for the readers. The trick is to have the other party reply and repeat keywords of what the Pyro said. Nevertheless, it can be hard to write about nine people in a story (sometimes I feel like I left someone out when I really didn't). Thank you for the review! It helps me know what I'm doing right (or wrong), what I'm strong/weak in and helps me to improve. Plus, it encourages me to write faster and better; kind of a win-win cycle in the end.

To Gueston (see what I did there?): Compared to the first few chapters of 2K+ words? Hell yeah! I'm glad you enjoyed Chapter 7 and the Soldier. Thanks for the review! It really helps me improve for the better of my readers.

(Psst! This one's around 6500 words. Actually, 6543, but hey, close enough.)

**_On with the show!_**

* * *

"Well, the rookie's gone."

The Spy looked up from his book to gaze at the Sniper, who had finally joined the other BLUs in the mess hall. After the awkwardly abrupt event in the training room, all nine had dispatched themselves back to the main base. Courtesy of the Engineer, they were sent for a quick check around the barracks for their missing new member; a brief "Go to your usual hangouts, look around, then meet up at the mess hall," according to the Texan. "If he's there, bring him here. If he ain't, give a small notification. Y'all can leave once we're all sure he's gone for good."

The Frenchman's voice was thick with mocking sympathy. "Of course 'e is."

The Sniper grumbled, slumping onto the seat next to the Demoman. With a swift observant glance over all his teammates' statuses, he noted with a tinge of aversion that out of all nine, only the Spy remained completely dry.

"Oh man, Miss P's gonna be mad," worried the Scout, bouncing a knee up and down nervously. He was never the one to keep still for long, regardless of reasons. His running shoes and the lower halves of his socks were caked with mud, which had left numerous marks on the floor, much to the Engineer's dismay, and the Medic's and Spy's disgust. The edges of his ruffled brown hair were flattened down by rainwater, his yellow one-sided earpiece was hung around his lean neck and his black cap was in his hand instead of atop his head. "I did a quick zip through da trainin' field, an' I didn't see anyone on da roof, either."

The Soldier suddenly stood and shook a clutched fist fiercely. "THAT MAGGOT RAN **AWAY** FROM THE TRAINING AREA! YOU DON'T HONESTLY EXPECT HIM TO FIND HIM THERE, DO YOU, ENGY?!"

"Calm down, Solly, ain't no one expecting anythin'," the Texan said, stern yet calm. The subtle biting tone in his voice had the stronger man sitting back down.

"Hph wsnft mh tgh bmnch ohtshcd," the Pyro informed, oblivious to almost the entire world as it stroked Mr. Balloonicorn's back as comfortingly as possible. The said balloon was still unwell and unstable since he saw such fear in a single being, the blue of his body now duller and paler.

A humourless, disbelieving snort came from the Scout. "He's not anywhere outside, let alone at ya bench, Py'."

The firebug did not reply.

"I checked aroond duwnstairs," It was the Scotsman's turn to speak this time. "Wasnae there."

"Not at dorms," added the Heavy.

Folding his arms, the Medic spoke: "Fortunately, he vas novhere near zhe infirmary."

"Or the attic," muttered the Australian.

The Engineer hummed dryly. "Spah?"

"I didn't see 'im anywhere," replied the Frenchman as he marked his page and closed his book. His expression alone clearly showed his disinterest in the subject.

The Scout sighed exasperatedly. "We ah gonna be _screwed_ da moment Miss Paulin' finds out,"

"FORGET MISS PAULING! THE ADMINISTRATOR'LL HAVE OUR ASSES!"

"So now what?" snapped the Bostonian, glaring up at the Soldier for his usual unnecessary yelling.

The Engineer immediately stood up, his hands open and raised, palms outwards. "All right, that's enough," he told the two other Americans in the room, before looking at the others. "Ah thank y'all for helpin' out. Y'all can leave now, but just so you know: If the Trainer boy isn't back by six, Ah'm informin' Miss Paulin'. If y' find him, inform me first in th' workshop."

"Leetle man could not have gone far with fence around BLU base," murmured the Heavy, more to himself than to the others. He watched as the Spy rose from his seat to leave to Saxton-Hale-knows-where. Then the Sniper left to the attic, the Medic to the infirmary—possibly to wash himself up in the separate bathroom meant for the convenience of bloodied patients—and the Soldier back to Target.

The Engineer pushed himself up from his seat. He looked at the large Russian. "Ain't gonna help Medic with his ÜberCharge experiment?"

"Nyet, unless Doktor needs me, I have own time to plan and spend."

"Ah, well, if yer up f'r a chat or wanna assemble a spare pistol or whatnot, Ah'll be in th' workshop." As the stout man made his way towards the doorway, he looked back over his shoulder. "Py'?"

The Pyro looked up, then back down at the blue balloon in its arms. It gently rose from its seat and quietly followed the Engineer, boots shuffling and scuffing the floor. "Cfmhng,"

The slowest mercenary glanced around the now emptier room; only the Scout and Demoman were left. The former stood up and wore his cap on backwards.

"I'm hittin' da showers, s'friggin' uncomfortable wearin' wet shoes an' socks," he told no one in particular, peeling off the bandages on his left hand as he left. His shoes squelched wetly as they took his shifting weight in turn, the noise eventually fading as he went upstairs.

Not bothering to wonder whether the Demoman would remain in the mess hall half-drunk or had anything better to do on such an uneventful ceasefire, the towering mercenary left as well. Now, what to do… he did not technically have an entire day planned ahead, and if he did, it was ruined by the unwelcomed events of the morning and early afternoon. Perhaps he could return to the training room and polish Sascha for the umpteenth time, or take up the Engineer's suggestion, maybe talk to him about literature. A mixture of mathematics and words sounded like an interesting form of art, if it was not so hard to decode and understand.

The Heavy found himself stopping once he passed the stairs. There was something gnawing at the back of his mind; he was forgetting something important that he had to do, but what? Anything upstairs was just the dormitory hall and showers, along with the ladder-accessible attic which the Sniper was assumingly being anti-social in and the roof above that was sheltering everything beneath from the bad weather. Downstairs, there was nothing more than the infirmary, storage room filled with unopened supplies that could last for another month or so, and the laundry room.

He blinked, then thumped the side of a clenched fist into an open palm. So that was what he was struggling to remember: He had lost a glove after the previous day's wash, and figured maybe he missed it when collecting his clothes. As strange as laundry seemed in a base full of trained professional killers working for Mann Co. under one of the world's most manliest man that ever existed in records without exploding from too much manliness—MANNSPLOSIONS!—basic needs and duties had to be taken care of. That meant cooking more interesting meals than the boring old rations, cleaning their uniforms for comfort and hygiene, and keeping the base relatively clean because it was their home until the contracts expire, excluding Smissmas when they were allowed to return home—if there was even a family to reunite with.

It was somewhat upsetting to see people like the Pyro staying. At least it had the Medic for company.

As the Heavy pondered over the possibilities of the Pyro having any family ties at all, he made his way downstairs, his weighty combat boots thumping rhythmically against the surface of the stairs. The stairwell was plain, neat and simple, with railings on each side and a platform connecting two flights of stairs, of which lead to different floors—three in total, ignoring the attic and roof.

Just as he reached the basement floor, a small black-and-brown blur caught his attention from the corner of his eyes. The base never had such a warm colour before. He turned to look, confused.

The snout of a German Shepherd snapped to face him. It growled lowly, baring its fangs as it crouched, bunching up its muscles in case it had to lunge and attack. A warning; defensive, diligent, dutiful, and yet the Heavy knew it would not attack unless he threatened it in any way, manner or form.

There was only one last question to answer: What was the dog doing in the gap under the stairs?

"Is leetle new recruit here?" the Russian asked out loud, straining his ears for anything other than the canine's growls.

Murmurs.

Quiet, unintelligent murmurs.

He took a step closer. The German Shepherd snarled. His mouth struggled to form the unfamiliar word: "Trainer?"

The murmurs stopped. Then a voice; "Down, Whiteface,"

The large dog's stance relaxed and it took several paw steps back before laying down. Taking it was an unspoken indication that approaching was fine, the older mercenary lumbered over, finally finding what the BLUs were supposed to be searching for. Maybe the more observant ones like the Sniper or Spy should search the entire base next time. Either that, or check under staircases for monsters more often.

He found the newcomer hunched and curled up, sitting cross-legged with Harlequin in his lap like some creepy cat-lady. The Trainer's grey eyes were still wide and alert, but overall he seemed calmer than before—if less panicked and more worried counted as 'calm'. He ran a hand through the smaller dog's fur, muttering one last reassurance that death was not coming to the animal, before swallowing hard and giving the Heavy his attention.

"…Y-yes?"

Squatting down slightly to see the cowering merc clearly, the bigger man asked: "What is leetle newcomer doing under staircase?"

The Trainer's eyes flashed with an unreadable emotion for a split-second. "I'm not hiding; I'm waiting for the storm to pass." he defended, forcing himself to ignore the dizziness in his head and nauseous stomach. Deep breaths were borderline painfully impossible with the tightness constricting his throat. Maybe he should have brought a paper bag along after all.

The Russian's voice caught the smaller man's attention again. "Storm outside or metaphorical storm?" He sat down with a thump. Thunder roared and rocked the sky aboveground.

"…Metaphorical,"

The Heavy grunted, thinking. "If metaphorical storm is death, do not fear death, leetle man. Respawn will help in battlefield."

A strained, dark chuckle bubbled from the handler's throat. "D-death?" he choked out. "No, no, you misunderstand, Mr H-Heavy Weapons Guy; I do not fear death.

"I fear dying.

"T-there's a difference, you know? O-or maybe you don't, but it doesn't matter if you let me explain it to y-you. You're a good man; you'll l-listen, won't you, sir?" The more he talked in his frantic state of dread, the stranger his accent seemed to become—not exactly breaking, or growing thicker. In fact, it was quite the opposite, now wavering and thinner than before.

With hesitation sitting on his broad shoulders, the larger mercenary nodded his shaven head. "Da, Heavy will listen to leetle dog-owner's explanation."

A relief smile tugged at the corners of the Trainer's lips, forming the slightest hint of a lopsided grin. It was dropped the very next second. "Death… death is death, the end, no continuation, just like that. It's a game without a save, a story that ended abruptly, the curtains with no credits to roll. It's just oblivion, an abyss, the unknown, but you wouldn't be alive to ponder on that, yea? You only wonder about death when you're alive, Heaven and Hell, maybe there's nowhere to go, maybe there is.

"Then there's dying…. Dying is far worse than death itself to me. They say that life is the most spectacular show on Earth, in the entire world. Then what's dying? The closing act, the Grand Finale, save the best for the last. People watch it to close the day, give the loudest applause, and then they're gone. When you… when you _die_, who's to know whether you have the choice of performing a good act that all would remember? What if you fell from the highwire, like The Flying Wallendas in 1962? O-or if you got red lighted in the dead of the night? Just thrown off the train like that in your sleep? Too quick a death, and you're gone with your regrets, never at peace, never able to think anything through. Too slow, and you have time to worry about the future, about others. The wait is literally killing you.

"It's _suffocating_."

Pausing for a shaky breath, the Trainer sunk back into the cold embrace of silence for a moment, before lowly croaking out one last statement: "Dying is a fate worse than death."

The Heavy allowed the newcomer's words to set in his head. Realisation of reality clicked, borderline a pitiful amusement when he was reminded of how fond of death his entire Team was, as well as the REDs. Despite the painful reminder that the Respawn was switched off during ceasefires, they never really thought of death as something, well, important, life-changing—or ending. Immortality was theirs, as all as the Respawn was up and working smoothly, which it always did. Perhaps reassurance was all that was missing from the recipe.

"Do not worry about dying, new recruit," he tried comforting, "if death cannot get you, you cannot truly die. Respawn will save you—will save all of us—will never let good mercenary die. "

A disbelieving smirk was followed by a weak laugh. "Touchwood, but maybe one day it'll fail. I've heard of Sudden Death, I know you guys get respawned in the end, but still, it'd be too easy to switch the machine off permanently. Who's to say that life isn't just a story with someone else writing the events? I've talked to the Engineer; he told me that anyone who tries to leave against the boss' orders is… permanently eliminated. Judging by his choice of words, I'm guessing every one of you killers has something to live for. So, what do you have, Mr Heavy? Family? Friends?"

More hesitation, more reluctance, they urged the Russian not to talk—sensible, yes, considering the fact that personal information was… well, extremely protected, not only for the sake of privacy, but to avoid unnecessary friendship ties due to common interests. So far such interests only existed in love for weapons and chaos and hate for the REDs. Those factors were enough for 'team spirit'.

"Mr Heavy?"

The Heavy Weapons Guy blinked, awakened from his thoughts. "Ah, sorry, Team doesn't like such talk about personal lives."

"H-how about a trade, then? You people do trades, yea?"

"Da, but for hats and weapons and tiny accessories," he reasoned, "not information."

The newcomer chewed on the inside of his right cheek, mindful not to pierce the flesh with his canine teeth. Talking normally calmed him down, giving him a sense of reality and something to focus on other than the nagging nips that death was prowling about nearby. If there was not going to be a fruitful conversation regardless of language barriers—he could talk in simple English anytime necessary—then what was the point of dragging road kill back home from a day's hunt? "…Okay then, see you guys at dinner," he murmured dryly, "if the boss was right, it'll be in a few hours."

With that, the Heavy watched as the fear-frazzled newbie slipped back to the nipping comfort of silence whilst fetching a small note from one of his shirt pockets. Printed figures and diagrams neatly filled the page—he seemed to be studying them quite intently, too, but his eyes told a different story.

Too tense to focus, and all he needed was a distraction.

The Russian scratched the back of his neck. As much as he was an intimidating man at first glance—though not exactly a gentle giant; maybe friendly, but not gentle—he was not exactly one without empathy. The first day with the BLUs for the past Tenth Classes never went smoothly before, so it clearly was not his responsibility to care about them. In fact, the new additions never stayed for more than a week at all.

So why did he feel so… guilty?

It was not a heavy blow of guilt in the guts, but instead a small twinge of it, like a little pebble in his boot, poking at his foot in a painfully annoying way. Maybe is was because this one way different. He _had_ been a planned surprise for the Teams.

He sighed.

"I have mother and sisters back in Motherland. Still in contact with them." the human beast stated, plain and simple. "You?"

A quick response of a blink and a startled "Huh?" was given as the newbie tore his eyes off the dog-eared A5-sized note. His shoulders relaxed slightly as he registered the new situation. "My parents and siblings are still travelling in the circus around the states." A pause. "I… I don't really know how to contact them, but maybe the boss would know."

"You have no direct contact with family? Is pity to hear," the Heavy replied truthfully.

The note was folded back neatly and tucked into a pocket. "I wonder whether the Big One would come to New Mexico. Doesn't seem good for show business, but at least there's the train track."

"So, you work with circus, da?"

"Used to be on the show a few years ago, actually," The younger man sighed nostalgically. "You'd think that life like that, doing what you love, would be perfect, especially if you were born into circus life like I was. Yet, stuff goes crazy. You'll always suffer because of someone else, no matter what. Life is a crazy show, written, produced and directed by someone else."

The brawler, now interested over the subject of stories, decided to continue the conversation. "Maybe suffering is just character development—the good ending will only come after complication and climax."

"Life never draws clear borders between the complication and climax. Plus, who's to say there'll be a good ending at all?" pondered the other.

"Maybe plot is fishbone structure?"

"Maybe," was the reply, "but what's the current complication of your life, Mr Heavy?"

The Heavy paused to think. "…Life with BLU is not very interesting with events, leetle dog owner, can actually be like routine: Wake up, shower, eat, prepare for battle, battle, rest, eat, shower, sleep, then repeat." he listed. "Nothing exciting, unless we move to another battlement."

"Heh, sounds like life back in the circus, only less fun, like a when we're on the jump and it turns out to be a dukey run." The ex-circus performer sighed again, his eyes growing glazed with memories as anxiety slowly slipped away from his mind.

After an awkward stretch of silence, the Russian spoke up: "Jumps become runs?" he said, confused by the slang.

The Trainer smacked his forehead with a hand. "Damn, sorry, I forgot that you guys don't—as the Europeans say—rokker the jib, or understand the lingo." He smiled sheepishly, before continuing: "To be on the jump is basically travelling from one lot—gah, bugger; _show ground_—to another. If it takes all night, then it's a dukey run. Sorry about all the slangs, I've grown up with them, so it's kinda difficult to drop. It's like my mother tongue."

"Mother tongue is fine as long as Soldier thinks it is American," mentioned the other with a hint of amusement. "If subject is still about plots, maybe new job here as BLU is complication, we see what happens." '_And if you leave like others. Would not be big surprise. Pitiful, but not surprise_.'

"Heh, kind of pumped for the first mission tomorrow. You guys should see what these two little devils can do when they're not humping your leg." The Trainer took a deep breath, letting it out with a huff. He spoke again without granting the bigger man any time to question; "Speaking of tomorrow's battle, I hear we're heading for Dustbowl. Boss had Miss Pauling brief me about the type of mission—Control Point: Attack and Defend." He gestured with his arms to emphasize his point.

The Heavy nodded nonchalantly. "Da, is old battlefield. You know how any tactics?"

The other shrugged his lean shoulders. "I'm planning on distractions and decoys with Harlequin's help here, but the boss didn't tell me exactly what to do. Never count the audience."

The brawler knitted his brows. "Count audience?"

Another shrug. "It's more of a superstition than a lingo. The last thing we need is to worry about how many there are to please." He paused for a short moment. "Quite different from preparing yourself for the show, but never-mind the circus, let's talk about stuff that we both know about. You start." he prompted.

The large Russian tapped his chin as he thought about a conversational subject. "Heavy fears ghost. Does leetle Trainer?"

The newcomer quirked a brow. "They have ghost here?"

A weird sound rose from the brawler's throat, one of indecisiveness and uncertainty. "…During Halloween and full moons at certain parts of Badlands, da,"

The handler blinked and whistled lowly, awed. "Well I'll be damned," he breathed, "and when's the next full moon, a week or so?"

"Is intriguing how tiny dog owner is not skeptical," commented the older merc. "Then again, other new Classes did not have chance to stay until full moon or Halloween. They say that ghost of Zepheniah Nieodemus Mann, father of Blutarch and Redmond, haunts with other ghosts around battlements. Died of every illness known to man, rotting away like living corpse." At the last sentence, his voice dropped low and hoarse, as if speaking of such was taboo.

On the contrary, the Trainer waved a bite-scarred hand in disbelief. "Pfft, I dealt with circus freaks with no lower body or collarbones. And I've seen the Showmen's Rest before." he told his new teammate. "It's a big old graveyard for the veteran performers."

"Ghosts cannot be killed, tiny man,"

"Then they can't kill us." he concluded pointedly with a light tone in his voice. "There's a difference between the dead, dying and death itself, Mr Heavy, and I fear the middle."

The Heavy's grey eyes glinted. "You should see monsters, they can kill you. Monoculus can kill weaker ones in one hit, and you do not look very strong; Horseless Headless Horseman can chop off heads in single blow; and Meramus is troublesome wizard."

"Whoa! You guys fight _wizards_?" Astonished and awed was more than an understatement for the handler. His face brightened up with a lopsided grin as he chortled, this time from amusement rather than skepticism. "Holy Hell! Do you guys get to fight evil elves to during Christm-"

"Smissmas."

"-Smissmas?"

The Heavy Weapons Guy chuckled. "Yes and no, but leetle Scout, Soldier and Spy killed Santa from South Pole with tiny boy by stabbing neck with icicle. Saved Teufort children."

"You're kidding,"

"Nyet, I am serious,"

"Will that South Santa be coming back this year?" asked the ex-slanger. "I mean, it _is_ Decemb- _waaait_…"

The Heavy raised an eyebrow. "Is something wrong?"

"Kind of," With words drawled and stretched with uncertainty, the Trainer frowned in confusion and scratched the back of his head. "Isn't supposed to be cold or snowing or something? New Mexico's in the south of the north, right?"

The bigger man furrowed his brows. "Tiny new colleague's choice of words is confusing Heavy,"

"Why isn't it snowing here?"

Oh.

The towering mercenary shifted slightly. "Well, you see, Badlands is very strange place; seasons do not change areas, but areas stay with season. Dustbowl will always be dry desert, Thunder Mountain always with rainclouds, Harvest always frozen in autumn.

"Tomorrow morning, you will see—Dustbowl will be desert, too dry for rain. Storm will pass."

_The storm will pass…_

Something animalistic stirred within the Trainer uncomfortably. It felt like a powerful tiger was clawing his insides to make a comfy nest out of his body, before settling down to sleep.

_"**John Robinson, please come to the rear entrance,**"_

_The ironically cheerful, patriotic tune of Stars and Stripes Forever was playing. Clowns were running out from the clown alley, ushering people off their seats out of the big top. The wind was howling, the rain roaring, the thunder snapping._

_The supporting poles around the large tent groaned. A young man in a wheeled cage panicked, the enclosure shrouded by thick velvety red curtains. He threw a glance back at the three tigers in the cage with him._

_They were as tense and frightened as he was, prowling about and growling._

_"Stay the Hell back!" he yelled at them, determined to keep them as distant as possible in the medium-sized cage. He regretted not bring a revolver, or a chair, or just… something! Returning his attention to the locks and chains, he continued his work with frantic fingers that had lost their dexterity and nimbleness to the freezing numbness of fear. His neck ached from having to look over his shoulder, and his hands fumbled clumsily behind his back._

_From somewhere outside, he heard a voice screaming about another blowdown. Damn the Boss Canvasman! What was so hard about planting firm poles into the damn ground? They had roustabouts, for show business' sake!_

_The curtain was a frenzy of movements as the wind tore at it. A hand burst its way past, then an arm, then an entire body._

_It was not his father, but better than no one._

_The nickname slipped out before he knew it. "M! Get me outta here!" He turned his head to face the tigers once more. Never turn your back to them, ever. He had not, but they were approaching. "Please tell me you brought a pistol, M!"_

_The chains clanked, but there was no response._

_The one of the larger tiger snarled at him._

_"M?" he nervously prompted. "M?! M, c'mon man, hurry up!" Worried and anxious, the young man turned around to fully face his second mentor._

_Big mistake._

_Claws raked down his back as a heavy weight crushed him against the cage floor painfully. The last thing he remembered was the final click of the lock, the smashing of metal against metal, and the sound of a gunshot ripping through the air._

_Then everything went black._

Blinking away his memories, the newbie could suddenly sense the ache in his tense muscles, and realised that he was not trapped in the small black world anymore; he could hear the rain from aboveground. The thunder roared.

_The storm will pass…_

"I bet it will, Mr Heavy." With a final, silent deep breath, the newcomer looked up at the taller merc with a wide grin. "Man, I should've brought my medication. Thanks for the talk, it really helped." He furrowed his brows, the grin on his face making it a strange expression of mixed emotions. "The boss never told me you were one to chat with."

The Heavy shrugged. He propped himself up and looked down at the new trio. "Depends on subject and whether language barrier is problem. Come, we go see Medic. Maybe he has medicine to help you."

The other seemed to shrink, cringing at the idea. "By 'medication', I meant metaphorically,"

The older man's voice hardened. "At least apologise for pushing Medic to the ground earlier."

"Riiight… about that," The Trainer gently nudged the dog off his lap. "Harle', get off; time to stop hiding like cowards."

The lean hound whined reluctantly, unwilling to leave the warmth of its owner, but nevertheless complied. Whiteface seemed completely indifferent about standing guard whilst its younger partner-in-crime rested.

The newbie dusted off his clothes, before carefully standing up, making sure to duck lest he hit his head against the stairs above. Unsure grey eyes looked up. "Off to see the doctor, then,"

"Da, you say sorry, we see if he can help you keep calm, and then you can go after telling Engineer that there is no need to call Miss Pauling." The Heavy started walking down the basement hallway.

The newcomer smiled nervously. "She'd be mad if I disappeared, because I'm bound to the contract, of course."

"Medic is mad too. If you're lucky, he will only steal one kidney."

"Damn, can he leave the adrenal glands behind?"

The Russian snorted in amusement. "Let us find out, tiny man.

"Oh, and welcome to BLU Team."

"…Thanks."

* * *

The short trip to the BLU infirmary—or the Medic's office, whichever—was relatively—and ironically, considering their previous conversation—silent if not for the rhythmic thumps and soft shuffles of footsteps, along with the two animals' scratching claws, panting jaws and clinking collar tags. It bemused the Heavy how his new teammate did not bother to hold them back with their leashes, of which were being dragged behind by the hounds. Off leash, but obedient, even if the younger hound was padding in an unpredictable manner of loops and turns in its curious state of mind, nearly tripping the Trainer when it tangled itself up with its owner's lean legs. The newcomer just swore and told his canine to be more careful as he shoved a small note he had been reading in a pocket. He continued talking to the smaller dog in a hushed tone, as if it were a human.

"All right, all right, I'll pay attention and look where I'm walking; now quit stuffing your snout everywhere."

The Russian raised a brow. "Does tiny dog not need whistle to tell it what to do?" he asked.

"He… it… the whistle only makes him do tricks." Hesitation lingered in the newbie's voice. "Emotion in the voice's all that's needed when it comes to approval—or lack thereof."

The bigger man hummed, comprehending the need for appropriate tones in words since animals could not understand human speak. If they could, they were not showing it. Or perhaps they were too focused on hunting and feeding their families to bother with mercy.

"Is that why you talk in high-pitched voice when praising dogs?" he questioned.

The stranger chortled at that. "Yea, then you have to sound fierce and unfaltering when commanding." For some strange apparent reason, his face suddenly lit in a mischievous grin. "Say..." he drawled out, slowing in pace enough to lag behind the Heavy, causing said merc to slow down as well. "You don't suppose that you have anything on you that belongs to the Medic, do you?"

The human bear shook his head truthfully. "Nyet; why?"

"Aw bugger, never-mind, I'm sure I've got something from the boss." The younger man began fumbling through his pockets. "Whiteface, heel! Let's see… scent trails, scent trails…

"Got it!"

With a raised brow of confusion and curiosity, the Heavy watched as the newcomer knelled down in front of the stronger canine, rolling a blue rubber band-like object onto his right index finger. It was thin and small, barely a centimetre wide, yet it had enough space on it to depict a figure seven and a familiar-looking medical cross inside a white ring. The stranger held it towards the large hound, ushering it to sniff the strange item that snugly hugged his finger.

Whiteface barked excitedly, ears perked and tail wagging. If it was not growling and snarling, it could have looked innocently playful and endearing.

"Go find the Medic, Whiteface, but no clems!" The Trainer sent the leader dog on the hunt, before calling out: "If I see any blood, I'm knocking your teeth out with the bullhook!"

The animal disappeared around the corner in a second.

A queasy gut feeling churned uncomfortably within the Heavy, and in a split-second later, the Medic's startled cry was heard, followed by German swears and curses, but no barking. The Trainer laughed in triumph and dashed forward, leaving the Heavy to catch up as fast as his weight and body built allowed him to.

The German's furious words became clearer the nearer they got. "_Dreckige Hund! Raus hier oder ich werde dich in zwei Hälften schneiden!_"

The newcomer burst in just in time to see the Medic grabbing a nearby bonesaw; his attack dog was standing innocently in front of the doorway, and most of the doves were ruffled and scattered around by the sudden start. Nonetheless, nothing was physically harmed. "Whoa! Whiteface, heel!"

The canine immediately turned around, obediently walking over to Trainer's feet. The Medic shot an irritated look at it as he straightened his posture bitterly. His grey eyes were still narrowed in a dangerous glare as he proceeded to calm his doves down, surgical tool turned homicidal weapon in his gloved right hand. After a few minutes of gathering his doves to perch at the windows, high up and far away from the dog's reach, the German fully turned to face the Trainer, forcing himself to appear calmer, yet a menacing air remained.

"Vone dove, a _single vone_ of my birds," He raised the bonesaw and shook it threateningly, "_und zhis vill be in your mutt's face_."

The newcomer backed away, more reluctant than fearful as he reminded himself that the bonesaw in the doctor's grasp was an authorized and registered Mann Co. weapon, of which, by some bizarre means of successful experiments, meant that it could not technically harm the hounds or him. He recognised the colour and design of the bonesaw, old and worn, missing two jagged teeth—it was not like the one the Medic usually used for operations. However, the Solemn Vow… no, it could not have been the real weapon. Clawing at his memories, the newbie managed to identify the difference: The plaque of 'Do No Harm' was missing. Perhaps it was a spare? Could it see the enemy's health too?

No, now was not the time to think about that. "Sorry about that, Doc," the handler apologized. From the corner of his vision, he saw Harlequin wandering around. "The doves aren't hurt, yea?"

"Nein, now unless you haff somezhing important or vish for me to remove vone of your vital organs, _leave_."

"All right, all right!" He snuck a glance to check on the distance between him and the approaching Heavy. Good enough. "Sorry about startling your doves, and for shoving you earlier, gilly," Without another word, he spun on his heels and sprinted off, rushing past the Heavy as the two hounds became his shadow. As he passed, he called out: "All out and over!"

Bewildered, the Russian looked at the Medic for answers. The latter grumbled something under his breath about how absurd the idea of a new Class was and that the Administrator was mental. Noticing the Heavy's presence, he inquired whether the larger man was disturbed by the newcomer's irritating antics. The stronger mercenary just shook his head.

"Did leetle dog owner say sorry to you, Doktor?"

"I take apologizes in organs." stated the German, voice steely and unnervingly calm. "He'll be losing an eye before battle tomorrow, und his panic disorder von't save him zhen, I _vill _make sure of zhat." His eyes widened, the glare replaced with his usual professional expression when he gazed past the Heavy. "Ah, Herr Engineer,"

The Russian looked over his shoulder only to notice that the said person was approaching, several rolls of blueprints tucked in his ammo pouch. Some of them looked wet and dog-eared, most likely due to the rain earlier.

The stout man waved at his two colleagues warmly, excitement buzzing in his head. "Howdy Heavy," he greeted, then looked at the leaner of the three. "Y' ready t' start testin' out Gray's Teleporters? Ah tried t' make a duplicate based off these blueprints, but it ain't gonna work without the Charge."

"Certainly," The Medic seemed to brighten up at the sound of new experiments, forgetting the past event of a large killer dog startling his doves. Not to say he forgave its owner—he would still gouge out an eye by force if he needed to, probably the left eye, then have the donor respawn. Before battle, any gibs could remain as they were, but during working hours caused them to fade as the Respawn worked its magic.

Pushing the thoughts of obtaining an extra eye to feed the doves with, the German focused back on the mechanic. "Give me a moment to fetch zhe Medi-Gun." He went back into the medical bay.

"Wait, weren't y' supposed to leave it back in th' weapon shed?"

"Und get drenched viz rainvater after cleaning up? Nein." He briefly returned. "Now, to zhe workshop, ja?"

The Engineer nodded. He switched his attention to the Heavy. "Ya wanna join us?"

"Nyet, is fine," the Russian declined, shaking his head. "But one question,"

"Yea?"

"Did you see where leetle Trainer ran off to?"

The mechanic hummed, thinking. "He ran past me earlier, can't say exactly where he is. Ah'm glad we don't hafta call up Miss Pauling, though." said he, "Why?"

The Medic made a gesture that he was heading off first, and the two acknowledged with a nod from the tallest and a thumbs up from the Texan. "He talks about literature. Maybe we can discuss books with him."

"War?"

"War."

The shorter man chuckled heartedly. "All right, see y' later. Drop by th' workshop anytime ya want a chat! And tell th' others th' they don't hafta worry about sittin' for a hearin'!"

The Heavy watched quietly as his teammate left, going up the stairs with a strange skip in his step, like a confident student waiting to receive his exam results. He shrugged his broad shoulders.

Now, time to find his glove.

* * *

Narrowed grey eyes stared at the screen, intently and focused, as they studied the nonsense sprawled all over it. A chin rested on a bridge of interlaced fingers, the silence and air around carrying what seemed like boredom, yet not.

Nonsense, absolute nonsense.

They loved nonsense.

The confusion, the twisted truth, so distorted and wrecked, pulled and stretched until strings snapped and everything spilled from the damages like organs and blood from a fatal injury right across the abdomen, fragile skin ripping apart, bones snapping and break, muscles tearing-

_Flphf…_

Metallic eyes flickered up at attention. A bird was perched outside the window, dull and plain, a common bird. It sat there, feathers slick and glistening as if it had just escaped from a body of water, before spreading a wing and preening itself.

Poor thing…

So the window was opened silently, carefully and with calculated precision. The avian did not notice; it worked on its other wing, then its chest. It hardly squawked from shock or indignation when gentle hands clasped around it to bring it inside.

A small, common, dull-feathered little bird that feared nothing. How nonsensical. The lack of fear was going to get it killed, just like how the lack of pain receptors made one dangerous to oneself and others.

The person settled back into the seat, never truly resting against the backrest, the bird in hand resting against a warm stomach. Its body was warm, its jet-black eyes of unreadable emotions, and it shuffled around to groom its tail, the movement tickling the two hands dully.

Ignoring the creature, the person went back to studying the nonsense. It was starting to make sense. In fact, it was making a lot of sense now, the meaningless calculations and equations finally logical.

**12011920130114141920011404091407**

* * *

**A/N:** I'm sorry if the German in this chapter is wrong! I'm not German nor have any German friends, and the grammar rules confused me greatly. Many translators available don't provide proper grammar, so I'm pretty sure I got something wrong. If any readers know the German language well, feel free to correct my mistakes! (And maybe teach me some rules? Pretty please with a hat on top?)

**FACT:** Non-Gary Sue point for me because the Medic is one of my most favourite characters (second to the Scout), and in this story, he doesn't get along well with my OC, so there. Any friendships will be developed slowly and reasonably depending on the behaviour of both parties and how well they would get along.

Anyway, headcannons: The Heavy is very intellectual person, as smart as the Engineer, it's just that he's not the best at English. Since he has a PhD in Russian literature (according to Poker Night at the Inventory), this chapter's a tad different in style, containing more thoughts than actions. I like to think of literature students to enjoy analysing and thinking through things, because that's what they're made to do during lessons. At least, that's what my lessons are about.

Secondly, the Medic appears to me as someone like Scar or Lord Shen. He may snap and grow ruthless, but he'll control his actions with calculated precision. Less of the mess, more of the gore.

Also, every mercenary has a specific place of the barracks that they're usually found at/in, so now we can write an entire dating sim about them. Head up to the attic for a higher chance to encounter (and annoy) the Sniper! Visit the infirmary voluntarily, for the monthly check-up or when you're sick to meet the Medic! Visit the Engineer and help him find materials to increase affection! Pop up to the roof at sunset to see if you can watch it with the Scout (yeah, that's my headcannon)! However, remember that if you try to visit more personal locations (roof, dorm rooms, attic, basically places where only one certain character can be found) without enough affection, you'll be made to leave and the affection percentage between the two of you might drop, making it harder for you to run into and chat with them. Nevertheless, you can still find them all in the mess hall at random times. Just remember that every merc has their own schedule, and not to let your secrets get out, or there'll be very angry, upset and betrayed mercenaries out for revenge.

...Damn, I'd actually write scripts and scenes for the TF2 version and post them if 'choose-your-adventures' were allowed, or if I knew how to make text-based Flash games. Oh well. I'm an artist, not a programmer.

On a semi-important note: I now have no beta reader. Just wanted to share. All mistakes are my own.

Coming up next: "_I'm not allowed to look behind! It's a superstitious rule of the circus!" "THIS IS **WAR**, NOT THE CIRCUS! SO STOP BEING SUPERSTITIOUS AND START BEING **USEFUL**!_"

Pleasant days and peaceful nights.


End file.
